


Three Funerals and a Wedding

by Englandwouldfall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Charlie Ships It, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, LARP Au, LARPing, M/M, Moondoor (Supernatural), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 18:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, um…basically, it’s this… I need you to marry me. For plot.”</p><p>Castiel stares at him.</p><p>“What?” Dean asks, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.</p><p>“I cannot believe gay marriage came to Moondoor before a significant part of America.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring Equinox

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a very proficient LARPer. In fact, for all intents and purposes, I am Castiel (you'll see what I mean). I crew the odd LARP event because my sister and her fiancé are LARPers, occasionally monster and have once or twice stumbled into actual role play and stayed very quiet. I like it a lot, but I don't understand what's going on. As a result, all the LARP plots in this story are based on my very vague understanding of how things work (and then manipulated for my own means). I just really really wanted to do the whole 'fake marriage' trope, but with LARP. 
> 
> Also, I have an exam tomorrow. Why am I writing this???
> 
> Oh oh oh, and for none LARPers basically the only thing you need to know is IC = in character and OC = out of character.

“We lost a good man today,” 

“A great warrior,” 

“An honourable man,” 

“A friend,” Dean says, raising his head to fix the other speakers with his glare, as if challenging them to suggest those qualities were more important, “Ezekiel was brave, honourable, skilled… but above all he was our friend.” His voice cracks. No one in the circle moves. Castiel returns to looking at the fire because he’s not very adept at responding to these moments properly and the fire is something to concentrate on. “As a mark of my mourning, I surrender my enchanted dagger to the fire.” 

“I, my bladeroot,” 

“Three pieces of bronze,” 

“An elixir of knowledge,” Kevin says. There’s a few seconds of silence before Dean nudges him and raises an eyebrow, and Castiel swallows. He’s been distracted. 

“A… potion,” Castiel says, to which Dean arches his eyebrow even more. Castiel deadpans straight back at him because it’s entirely Dean’s fault that he’s here, and because it’s not Castiel’s fault that his social awkwardness extends to funeral-rites. 

“My herb garden,” 

“An enchanted arrow,” Charlie says, bowing her head solemnly, “With these sacrifices, we send Ezekiel into the next life.” 

“May he always be remembered,” Everyone says in unison, with Castiel joining in halfway and stumbling through it, before silence falls once again. It’s supposed to be thirty seconds of silence, but it feels more like several long minutes to Castiel, until Charlie breaks it with a cough and declares that she’s returning to her tent to ponder her loss and to suggest that they do the same because, tomorrow, they go back to war. 

“You leaving?” Dean asks him, as Castiel makes a move to get up. He’s been itching to get away since he sat down, because he’s uncomfortable and tried and isn’t entirely sure that he wants to be here anymore. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I’m going to… wander.” 

“To wander,” Dean repeats, his lips quirking upwards, “You sure wander a lot, Emmanuel.” 

“Shut up,” Castiel says, standing up. 

“Can you uh,” Dean says, glancing around at the others to check no one’s listening. Kevin is studying enchantments written in careful calligraphy and Dorothy is mixing potions, whilst Gilda mediates with her legs crossed, “Sneak me in a cheeseburger?” 

For all that Dean is a stickler for the rules and never one to break character, fast food will forever be his weakness. 

“No,” Castiel frowns, pausing a little to think things through. He doesn’t especially want to encroach on Dean’s time if he’s not wanted, but then the whole reason he’s here is to _see Dean_ … he’s hesitating primarily because he doesn’t want to deal with the rejection and that isn’t a nice piece of information to possess. “But I will purchase you a burger if you accompany me.” 

Dean smiles. 

“Hell yeah,” Dean says, scrabbling to stand up in his chainmail and his cloak, “Emmanuel and I are going to, uh, wander. Ponder on our losses and stuff. Yep.” 

Castiel tries very hard not to smile and squash down his excitement because, really, his best friend joining him for food isn’t an especially devastating event. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. 

“Farewell, Hunter, Emmanuel,” Kevin says, not looking up from his spell book. 

* 

Castiel crews because he’s never really understood LARPing. It’s not that he doesn’t _enjoy it_ because, to an extent, he does. He just prefers to watch the plot unfold than engage with it. It tends to involve less time trying to work out the rules and more time pretending to know what Dean’s even talking about. When he crews, he gets the event for free, vouchers for meals from the food stalls and to be part of experience without spending the whole weekend wearing a robe and going by the name ‘Emmanuel.’ 

Well, if he’s entirely honest, he’s been enjoying the events less and less over the past year. At the moment the only real reason he still attends the four annual weekend events is because it’s the only real time he gets to spend with his best friend and, given that Dean does not crew and, increasingly, does not make any particular effort to spend time with him at these events, Castiel isn’t entirely sure that he’s going to book to attend the next event. 

He hasn’t mentioned it to Dean yet, but he will. Soon. 

* 

“Ohmygod,” Dean says, through a mouthful of cheeseburger, “Cas, this is like a mouthgasm.” 

“In which case you should probably engage in safe mouth sex,” Cas says, “And chew with your mouth closed.” 

“I got protection,” Dean says, gesturing towards the dagger in his hilt, “We’re awesome.” 

“You’re incorrigible,” 

“You miss me,” 

“I do,” Castiel agrees, offering a cursory glance around the crew tent to see if anyone requires assistance. Currently, the only players here are Gadreel, who’s regenerating himself after his death earlier, and an irritable elf who’s been waiting for someone to drop off his crossbow at lost property for the past hour. It will likely turn up at some point, but probably not whilst everyone is still eating. And Dean, of course, who has his mud-covered boots propped up on the table with the player packs, which Castiel should probably have told him not to do. “I assume you’re having fun.” 

When it comes to LARPing, Dean Winchester is essentially a puppy crossed with a blood thirsty psychopath. He currently has an actual spring in his step which is almost entirely to do with the fact that he took down several orcs in combat, even if he received a traumatic wound for his efforts. 

“Dude, the role playing has been _aces_ today. I mean, I know you missed Gadreel canning it but, damn. Didn’t know the guy had that kind of death in him.” 

“What does this mean for the plot?” 

“Not sure yet,” Dean say, “Charlie’s gonna work it out, I think.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, and he’s honestly just going to say it. He’s just going to say that he’s an adult with a nine till five job and spending the whole weekend pretending to be a mage/priest/ritualist (however many years since Dean talked him into starting this, he still doesn’t really understand what’s going on a large proportion of the time) is just too exhausting for him to continue. That if Dean wants to see him this regularly then he’s going to have to make an effort to see him outside of LARP events, as he always promises he will when he drives them both home in the car he borrowed from his surrogate father because he can’t stand the thought of getting mud in the Impala. “I – ” 

“ – hey, Gadreel, you heading back to camp?” Dean says, swinging his feet off the table and leaning towards Gadreel. 

“Yes,” Gadreel says, in his usual awkward way. “I have just finished regenerating my character.” 

“What should I call you, then?” 

“I have decided, this time, to keep my name,” Gadreel says. 

“I’m gonna miss Zeke,” Dean says, “Well, hey, I’ll head back with you.” 

“I could make up your player pack now,” Castiel says, before he’s really meant to, because he doesn’t want Dean to leave yet. He’s only just got him here. He had the length of time it takes Dean to consume a burger (which, it has to be noted, is a disgustingly short period of time). That’s all he got. 

“Thank you,” Gadreel says, nodding at him. 

“You know,” Dean says, as Castiel prints off the player information for Gadreel, player name now also Gadreel, formerly Ezekiel. “This guy sacrificed _a potion_ at your funeral earlier. You work out what the hell kinda potion yet, Cas?” 

“We can’t all have the wiki memorised,” Castiel says, but he’s smiling slightly. 

“Forget the wiki, you barely know your character’s name.” 

“It was a beautiful funeral, Gadreel,” Castiel says, slipping a basic herb garden into Gadreel’s new pack before handing it over. 

“One day, dude, I’m gonna teach you the rules of Moondoor.” 

“Actually, Dean –” 

“– Aren’t I supposed to have five amethyst?” 

“Oh, I apologise,” Cas says, then heads to the resources, “Here.” 

“Catch you later, Cas.” Dean says, wiping his burger hands on his brown drawstring trousers and stepping round the crew table to get to the other side. He walks differently in his chainmail (both with a little more confidence and a little more awkwardly due to the restriction of movement), but it’s still uncomfortably difficult to watch him walk away. 

* 

Charlie comes to the crew tent to verify an enchantment with a referee a few hours later and waits with him whilst the ref puts the details into the database. 

“You okay?” Charlie asks him, after a few seconds of silence, “You seemed kinda… distracted earlier.” Cas frowns at her. “I mean, I know you’re not as into the game as some people…” 

“By which you mean yourself and Dean,” 

“… but, you were super out of it today.” 

“I… am thinking about stopping,” Castiel says, then looks at the floor because, chances are, he wouldn’t see Charlie nearly as much if he stopped LARPing either, but he’s almost entirely convinced that it’s necessary for his sanity. He cannot keep attending these events expecting to have quality time with his best friend only to spend two solid days watching him ignore him in favour of pretending to be a wizard (well, a magical warrior to be precise, but it's all the same to Castiel). It’s tiresome. 

“Is this about Dean?” 

“Partially,” Castiel says, “But, as you said, it’s always been more Dean’s thing than my own and I no longer get a great deal of pleasure out of it. Besides, I just end up exhausted and behind on work. I tried to explain why I still participate to Daphne and… I couldn’t.” 

“Yeah,” Charlie says, waggling her eyebrows at him, “Because she wouldn’t like the reason.” 

“Charlie,” 

“Okay, okay,” Charlie says, holding up her hands, “Just, don’t decide properly yet. And don’t tell Dean. Promise.” 

“Okay,” 

“Pinky promise,” 

“Why?” Castiel asks, but holds his little finger out to Charlie and lets her shake it anyway. He doesn’t particularly want to tell Dean he’s thinking about no longer attending the only social events they attend together these days, not given the solemn promise he’d made when he’d moved out of their college apartment that they’d still see each other all the time, and not after however many years of friendship. Promising not to tell him is more of a relief than anything else. It’s certainly easier. 

“You know where Becky and Chuck from plot are?” Charlie asks, stepping back and glancing in the direction of the Monster tent, “I need to cash in a favour.” 

“Charlie,” Cas warns. 

“S’laters, Cas.” Charlie says, winking at him before disappearing out the back ‘crew only’ exit. Charlie, although she may no longer be in-game royalty anymore, is still the queen of the whole place and can, as a general rule, do and go wherever she so pleases. 

Castiel sighs and returns to laminating potion cards. 

* 

Cas finishes his shift a few hours after it’s gone dark, pulls the robe Dean bought him after his second LARP event six years earlier over his crew T-shirt and heads back onto the field. He left his torch in the tent and he might possibly be _actually_ lynched if he uses his phone on the IC field, so he just has to have a little faith that he’s not about to trip over a tent rope and seriously injure himself. 

By the time he’s approaching the fire of their camp, he’s remembering a little of why he attends. He can hear Dean laughing, loud and boisterous, in a way he hasn’t heard him laugh outside of these events for years. Dean is always childlike with glee at LARP events. 

“Emmanuel!” Dean calls when he approaches, “Get your ass down here.” 

“Down where?” 

“Next to my sweet ass,” Dean grins, pressing a tankard into his hands the second he sits down. “Glad you wandered back to me, dude.” 

“What am I drinking?” Castiel asks, taking a sip of the mystery liquid. It’s sweet, too sweet, and potently alcoholic, but they tend to wind up drinking obscure alcohol whilst at LARP events. They always seem to be homebrewed and strong but rarely give him a hangover. He’s never really understood it. 

“That’s the attitude I like,” Dean says, “Gotta fulfil that drunken priest trope.” 

“I’m a priest?” 

“You’re shitting me, right?” 

“Yes, Dean, I am,” Cas says and takes a drink. 

“Dude, IC.” Dean says, and Cas rolls his eyes, and then Dean throws an arm around his shoulder. “Damn, man, I gotta see you more.” 

“Preferably, yes,” Cas says, and he lets himself rest his head on Dean’s shoulder, even though it’s against his better judgement. He dislikes how Dean can say things like how he misses him and how we wants them to spend more time together, yet is virtually impossible to contact most of the time. 

“You cold?” 

“Yes,” Cas lies, just because it results in Dean draping a blanket over both of them, and gives him a decent excuse to shift a little closer. 

Castiel is never entirely sure how his becoming a LARPer happened, except that Dean nagged him to come along when they were in college and Castiel had (and still has, really) a tendency to let Dean get away with more than he should. He was beginning to regret the whole situation by the time Dean had talked him through the mechanics of generating a character (not that Castiel listened as much as pretended to listen and let Dean do whatever he wanted, which is how he ended up a celibate priest as some sort of twisted joke about his sex life and a punishment for not paying attention). Then Dean talked him into donning a robe, at which point Castiel was sure they’d finally reached his threshold of patience… but then they arrived to a hideously muddy field with a bell tent and a flagon of homebrewed ‘mead’ that Dean had purchased from a street vendor at the last event, and Dean had worn that expression he sometimes gets if excited or pleased with himself that’s always marred by his awareness that his excitement doesn’t classify as ‘cool’ or ‘masculine’ or ‘something John Winchester could approve of’ and is therefore thoroughly muted and repressed. Except, Dean was wearing it _without_ the repression. 

It was the first time Castiel had seen him look genuinely _happy_ since his father died, so Castiel continued to wear the ridiculous robe, made a (failed) attempt to work out what was going on and had continued to attend the four annual weekend events ever since. 

Castiel falling in love with the passion and dedication of the players came second, even if he never quite understood how the game actually works, or has ever been particularly good at role playing himself; he tends just to join in when they need him to do something specifically, or otherwise join in whilst they’re eating lamb and vegetable stew or sparring with LARP-safe weapons. 

Or, like now, drinking questionable alcohol from questionably clean tankards round the fire. 

“Dude, you serious?” Dean asks, “Terron did _what_ He think we’re stupid, or something.” 

“Terron is a wise man,” Gilda says. 

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t act like a total frigging idiot,” Dean says. 

“Amen to that, Hunter,” Charlie pipes up, shooting Cas a smile where he’s tucked under Dean’s arm, clutching his tankard and half falling asleep. Dean picked him up an hour after he finished work yesterday due to his eagerness to pitch the tent before time in (which, admittedly, was much easier as it meant the tent could be put up without wearing the ridiculous robe), but still means that he hasn’t really had time to unwind since Thursday evening. It’s now very late on Saturday (or, more likely, borderline Sunday morning). Castiel is an introvert and has been dealing with large quantities of people for a significant length of time. “I think your bestie’s dropping off.” 

“Hey, you tired?” Dean asks, suddenly man handling him to get Castiel to face him, “You should have said, man, let’s turn in.” 

“You don’t have to follow me,” 

“Don’t wanna wake you after you’ve settled,” Dean says, “Night, all. ‘Manny and I are hitting the sack. Be vigilant. Sleep well.” 

“Goodnight,” Cas says, standing up and stumbling towards their bell tent. It’s Dean’s second bell tent and Castiel has fond memories of the two of them pitching it in his at-the-time-boyfriend’s back yard in order to waterproof it, because he happened to be the only person they knew with a back yard. 

Dean took his armour off and dumped it inside after the last of the day’s fighting died off and Cas trips over it on the way into the tent, stumbling face first into the excessive pile of equipment that Dean managed to pack in the back of Bobby’s pick-up. He was already stooping forward to enter the tent so it doesn't hurt, but it's isn't exactly ideal. 

“Could use some light, huh,” Dean says, stepping round him and flicking on their candle-shaped tent light. Castiel isn’t entirely he needs his humiliating position on the floor to be further illuminated, but it’s only Dean, who’s seen him in much worse positions before. Usually due to Dean’s own influence, mind, but nevertheless. “You gonna derobe,” Dean grins, “Hah.” 

“You’re not funny, Dean,” Castiel says, standing up and heading towards his bags, which happen to be the significantly smaller than Dean’s. 

“You’re coming into the field tomorrow?” 

“Perhaps,” Castiel says, as he pulls his robe off over his head and dumps it next to his duffel bag. They both know that means no. He pulls off his crew t-shirt too and folds it ready for tomorrow. 

“Huh, you’ve started running again,” Dean says, and Castiel turns around to find him eyeing his torso with a raised eyebrow. 

“You’ve taken up doughnuts again,” Castiel throws back. 

“Touché,” Dean says, “And kinda harsh, dude, ouch.” 

“Put your shirt on, Dean.” 

“Who says I bought one?” 

“Hopefully, the active part of your brain that remembers how cold the last event was,” Castiel says, “Or at the very least, Lisa.” 

“Supposed to be warmer if you sleep naked, you know,” Dean says, or more leers actually, and he’s still shirtless and still looks absurdly good from the light of the fake-candle, slight weigh gain aside (well, not even aside really, because Castiel has long been convinced that that’s part of his charm). 

“If you wish to test the theory, I’m not responsible for defrosting any part of your anatomy tomorrow,” Castiel says, then turns back away to dig out the thermals he bought for sleeping in. He usually receives a large amount of mocking for them and he’s also still usually cold, but they probably help. 

“Not any part?” Dean grins, then _finally_ reaches for his own shirt, a lord of the rings cartoon emblazoned thing that Castiel remembers from their college days. “You sure, dude?” 

“Don’t push your luck, Dean,” Castiel says, swapping into his sweats as quickly as possible before Dean can make any further comments. 

“But, it’s been ages,” 

“Since you’ve pushed your luck?” 

“Since we’ve hung out,” Dean says, “But, that too.” 

“Well, we’re hanging out now,” 

“You always gotta say that like you’re mocking my word choices,” Dean says, now watching Castiel pull on his second pair of socks (this time quite fluffy socks) with an expression of bemused affection. “It’s like a compulsion.” 

“You do often sound ridiculous,” Castiel says, rummaging through his bag to find his toothbrush, before pulling on a sweatshirt and then, because Dean always insists on camping IC, his damnable robe. 

“Says you,” Dean comments, as Castiel heads out towards the portaloos. 

* 

"So," Dean says, when they're both in their sleeping bags with their airbeds lined up close together for supposed warmth, the light now off but the dim glow from the fire outside still permeating the walls of the tent and bathing Dean's face in shadows, "What's going on with you, dude?" 

"Not a great deal," Castiel says, tilting himself onto his side to face him. "Work is still tiresome. The mortgage still needs to be paid." 

"You seeing anyone?" 

"No," Castiel lies, even though he has no reason to. He doesn't really want to discuss Daphne with Dean, though. "How's Lisa?" 

"Yeah, good," Dean says, "Still not mad about this. Doesn't get the no cells thing." 

Castiel knows that most of that statement is a lie, because he knows that Dean was tense and bad-tempered when he picked Castiel up and less so the further he drove away from his girlfriend’s house. He knows this because when they stopped for gas Dean left his cell to go to the toilet whilst Castiel sipped his coffee, and Dean received a message from Lisa that began ‘I don't see how we're going to give this another go if...’ which Castiel did not intend to read. Between the late night phone call Dean made when he thought Cas was asleep and his irritability when he has to face his phone, Castiel is almost entirely sure they are splitting up. Still, he lied about Daphne, so it's only fair that he allows Dean to lie back. 

"Work?" 

"Good," Dean says, "Some of us actually like our jobs." 

"I don't dislike my job." 

"Well, you liked it enough to move away." 

"Dean, I am not that far away from you." 

"Feels like it," Dean says, rubbing a hand over his face, "Man, sorry, I'm being an ass. I just... seems like we're barely friends anymore." 

"We're both busy," Cas insists, which is what he tells himself every time Dean cancels on their plans or takes four days to answer a text message. They are both busy. 

“Guess so,” Dean says, sounding so petulant that it’s virtually impossible not to get irritated. 

“ _You_ stood me up last week, Dean, with virtually no explanation and you are the one who cancelled our plans three weeks before that. It’s not _my_ fault that we haven’t seen each other a great deal this year.” 

“Pretty sure you have to be dating for someone to stand you up,” 

“You can be friendship-stood up.” Castiel says icily. 

“Okay, okay,” Dean says, “Sorry. Something came up.” 

“I know,” Castiel says, “That’s what you said at the time.” 

“Just… goodnight, Cas.” 

“Goodnight,” Cas says, and rolls over to face the other direction instead. 

Sleep is a long time coming. 

* 

“Cas, hey, so,” Dean says, all in a rush, as he turns up to the crew tent with Charlie in tow shortly after the post-battle rush (largely of newly deceased characters generating themselves and the masses searching for weaponry amongst lost property), “I need a favour.” 

He has mud smudged over his left eyebrow and his sword is hanging from his belt at a strange jaunty angle. Castiel would probably mock him for it if it wasn’t so endearing. 

“I told you that I’m not charging your cell phone in the crew tent again,” Castiel says, frowning at him from where he’s putting together a set of player packs for the players who had to generate a new character yesterday. “Hello, Charlie.” 

Charlie offers him a salute. 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, “It’s not about that.” 

“Oh?” 

“The Archmage died,” 

“I know,” Castiel says, “Apparently, this is a very important development in the game.” 

“Well, it’s totally screwed us over,” Dean says, “And we’ve been having a major rethink, see, and Charlie had this plan about this… uh, I guess kind of a bonding ritual she bought off this guy who found it when he raided some camp, which says that if a mighty warrior and a disgraced priest, like, complete this ritual, then it increases the strength of any spells of a whole coven, so long as –” 

“– Dean, you’re aware I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Castiel interjects, tilting his head at him. Generally, Dean is a little more understanding about Castiel’s total lack of awareness about what’s actually going on, which is interesting because it means that Dean is distracted. 

“Okay, cliff notes, you’re the disgraced priest.” 

“When was I disgraced?” 

“That time I dragged you into that ritual with the leviathan,” Dean says, “You got that slip of paper that said you had a permanent black mark on your soul, right?” 

“Right,” Castiel agrees. That was over two years ago, but he has a vague recollection of it occurring. He hopes no one is going to ask him for this piece of paper because he’s entirely sure it was recycled a long, long time ago. 

“And I’m in the warrior. So, we gotta… I mean, if you want, do this thing so we can get some of power back, cause the Archmage was kinda the key to most of our power and if we don’t –“ 

“– Dean,” Cas says, “What do you need me to do?” 

“So, um…basically, it’s this… I need you to marry me. For plot.” 

Castiel stares at him. 

“What?” Dean asks, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. 

“I cannot believe gay marriage came to Moondoor before a significant part of America.” 

“It’s not so much a marriage as an eternal binding of souls,” Charlie says, helpfully, “Cemented through sexual union.” 

Castiel meets her eye and has a horrible realisation about how this whole thing happened to come to be in the first place and, well, he should have known not to pinky-promise without knowing the full extent of her scheming. 

“Obviously we don’t have to actually cement it with, uh, sexual union,” Dean adds, quickly. 

“That would probably be taking the role play too far, yes,” Castiel returns, because Dean has flushed slightly and he appreciates the fact that he can still see the awkward and fumbling teenage-Dean sometimes. 

“So you’ll do it?” 

That’s the big question. 

“Well, I’ll need a proper proposal,” Castiel says. 

“Dude, are you serious?” 

“Dean, from what I understand, my character took a vow of celibacy,” Castiel says, “I very much doubt Emmanuel would break that vow without a degree of courtship, despite his fondness of Hunter.” 

“Fine, will you fake marry me, Cas?” 

“We’re clearly in the OC tent,” Castiel says, “I will also need time to consider your proposal. Aren’t there several courtship rituals to observe?” 

“Is this because I stood you up for bowling last Saturday?” Dean asks, sourly. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “It is.” 

“You gotta be on the field for me to court you, or whatever,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes slightly. 

“Emmanuel will be there whenever Hunter wishes to begin the process of seduction,” 

“The process of… okay, dude, whatever, you asked for this. Prepare to be seduced like you’ve never been seduced in your goddamn life.” Dean says, stretching his arms out and waggling his eyebrows at him. 

“It’s several hours till time out,” Castiel says, “Perhaps next event. It will give you some time to plan.” 

“Huh, like I need to plan. Emmanuel’s virginity has a time limit, my friend.” 

“We’ll see,” Castiel says, smiling ever so slightly, “Emmanuel may be disgraced, but he is nevertheless very attached to his beliefs and is certainly not easy.” 

“Hey, man, I got you to get your slut on once before,” Dean grins, “I can do it again.” 

“Don’t you have a funeral to go to?” Castiel asks, properly smiling this time, as Charlie beams behind his shoulder. Charlie has always been a cheerleader of their friendship, ever since she met Castiel at his second LARP event and declared that they were best friends, and perhaps before that. He could probably still do without the interfering. 

“Actually, so do you,” Charlie says, smiling, “And you’re gonna need to sacrifice something better than a potion for the Archmage.” 

“What else do I have?” 

“Your virginity?” Dean suggests, looking far too pleased with himself. 

Castiel rolls his eyes and goes to retrieve his robe. Perhaps that would be considered an adequate sacrifice. 

* 

“Either you were lying when you said you weren't seeing someone, or a homely looking girl broke into your house to water the plants,” Dean says, when they’ve pulled into his driveway. Castiel slept through most of the drive which is frustrating given it was a guaranteed few hours to actually talk to Dean about his life, but was probably necessary. He’s not particularly good at sleeping in tents, especially after the sun's risen. 

“It’s… not serious,” 

“Well, she’s got a key to your house, dude,” Dean says, eyebrows poised into the familiar ‘what the fuck dude’ expression that he hasn’t had directed at him for eons. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t told Dean about Daphne. Or maybe he does, he merely doesn’t want to think about those reasons. “Come on man, you sell me this spiel about how we’re still best buddies then you go and pull something like _this_.” 

“You’ve been lying about your relationship with Lisa too,” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Cause I don’t wanna deal with that mess right now. That’s not me not wanting to tell you stuff, it’s me not wanting to talk about it. Period.” 

“She’s called Daphne and she works in the offices opposite mine,” Castiel says after a few long moments of silence, because he simply does not know what else to say. “She’s… nice.” 

“Nice,” Dean repeats, shaking his head, “Well, you seem enthusiastic.” 

“Dean –” 

“ – well, you have a _nice_ day, Cas,” Dean says, opening the driver door and popping open the trunk. He doesn’t quite throw Castiel’s bags onto the floor, but the movement is certainly a lot more violent than it should be. Castiel isn’t quite sure how to defend himself, because he _should_ have told Dean about Daphne (even though, in reality, it isn’t particularly serious, and she in fact insisted upon taking a key in order to water the plants that she’d bought for the kitchen the previous week) and it probably says a lot about him that he didn’t. He even lied about it. 

“Dean,” Cas says again, but Dean’s already climbing back into Bobby’s pick-up, hands clenched on the wheel, and there’s little point trying to pursue this conversation when Dean’s clearly decided that he doesn’t want to have it. 

Castiel takes his bags inside instead. 

“Did you speak to him?” Daphne asks, flicking on the coffee machine. He doesn’t particularly want to talk to her, despite how horrible that probably makes him, because he’s fed of people, he's exhausted and feels emotionally saturated after his quasi-argument with Dean. “About not attending the next… event?” 

“Not exactly,” Castiel says, thinking vaguely about his commitment to LARP-marrying his best friend as a part of Charlie’s grand plan to save their friendship and keep Castiel in the LARPing game, and how that wasn’t really part of the initial get out plan. In fact, he’s dedicated himself to more time on the field purely for the pay-off of a little quality time with Dean Winchester (that just happens to take on the form of role-play seduction), which is more or less the exact opposite of the original goal. 

He’s not as disappointed as he probably should be.


	2. Summer Solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Senates are a little… geeky for my tastes,” Dorothy says, “I’ll leave that to the Deans and the Kevins of the world.”

By the time the second event of the LARP season rolls around, Dean appears to have forgiven him for not telling him about Daphne. He doesn’t mention it, or the several weeks of silence between this event and the last, but opts instead for texting him on Wednesday about driving arrangements, picking him up on Friday evening and pretending everything’s normal. Distraction isn’t exactly a foreign technique when it comes to Dean and Castiel isn’t particularly inclined to pick at it as he’s sure Dean’s irritation is still bubbling under the surface. Anyway, the weekend _is_ supposed to be about role playing. It’s essentially a warming up exercise.

“So, you’re actually gonna hit up the field?” Dean asks, after they’ve had the usual disagreement about the driving soundtrack (Dean at least usually selects Led Zeppelin over Metallica for Castiel’s sake, but that’s as far as Dean is willing to stretch) and settled into an easy silence. Not as easy as it once was, perhaps, but easy enough. 

“I thought it was necessary for plot,” Castiel says, resting his head against the window of Bobby Singer’s pick up. He would like to sleep. He’s exhausted. He’s been dreading the whole thing because, as much as it seemed amusing and a good idea to con Dean into spending time with him via Charlie’s bizarre plot, now it seems… difficult. Complicated. Like prodding a bruise. 

He would also prefer it if spending time with Dean didn’t involve tricking him into it. 

“You putting your robe on for five minutes and marrying me was necessary for plot,” Dean says, “This seduction routine certainly ain’t.” 

“I see,” 

“You see?” 

“You’re concerned you won’t be successful,” Castiel says, turning to face him. The car is hot. He’s sure he’s heard at least one weather presenter call their current string of hot weather a heat wave, even if Castiel is sure that’s an overstatement. Nevertheless, it’s certainly too hot to be pitching a tent and melting in the outdoors far away from any form of air conditioning. “Don’t worry, Dean, I have every intention of giving into your charms in the end.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s the plot twist,” Dean says, “Since when have you wanted to drag field time out?” 

“Since when have you complained about me participating?” Castiel asks, sharply. 

“Well, there’s not normally all that much to complain about.” 

“If you don’t want me to LARP then –” 

“– you wake up on the wrong side of your detached two bed house or something?” Dean asks, turning to face him with his eyebrows raised. Castiel is aware that isn’t a dig at him. He is. It still _feels_ like a dig, however, and he’s bristling before he’s had a chance to reason himself out of it. “Okay,” Dean says, looking back to the road, “I’ll just shut up then.” 

“I’m tried.” 

“You even _like_ LARP anymore?” 

“No,” Castiel says, then instantly regrets it when he catches a glimpse of Dean’s expression. “I mean, my enthusiasm has been waning. That’s why I’m entering the field.” 

“Why don’t you just quit?” Dean asks, in the same tone of voice he used when he asked Castiel _why don’t you just move out?_ after four years of being roommates, when Castiel decided that a two hour commute was just too long. He’s long since realised that Dean didn’t actually think he was going to, but he hadn’t had a great deal of choice about the matter. Dean catches his eye in the front view mirror. “You’re considering it.” 

“I was,” 

“Great,” Dean says, swallows, “Fucking great.” 

“Dean,” 

“Forget it, man,” Dean says, grip tightening on the wheel. 

Castiel sighs and doesn’t comment when Dean swaps Led Zeppelin for the heaviest Metallica tape he keeps in his car. 

* 

Charlie drags him away the second they’ve arrived (she, apparently, has been here since Wednesday night) to ask whether he _really_ wants to role play and whether he hates her for interfering. He doesn’t (although the consequences of her interference haven’t panned out yet), but by the time he’s assured her Dean’s already put up the bell tent with the help of Gadreel and is discussing something Castiel doesn’t understand about a senate with Gilda. He doesn’t want to interrupt and expose his cluelessness (Dean might treat his lack of understanding of LARP as vaguely endearing, but Gilda takes LARP _more seriously_ than Dean and doesn’t have any form of relationship with him outside the field and so does not indulge his ignorance), Charlie has disappeared to put on her armour and Kevin is elsewhere, which leaves him more or less socially stranded. He doesn’t know any of the people in their coven particularly well, despite the years of almost-participation. Generally, he’s too busy in the crew tent to have actually socialised and, besides, when he does see them they’re generally pretending to be someone else. Time in isn’t for several more hours so everyone is still catching up about their real lives (apart from Dean and Gilda, apparently), which Castiel knows nothing about. 

Castiel takes a seat next to Dorothy simply because he knows her OC name as well as her IC name, which is much more than he can say for a number of the others, and sets about intently watching her try to start their usual fire. 

“Are you attending the senate later?” Castiel asks, after she’s looked at him looking at the lack of fire for long enough that silence is awkward. 

“Please,” Dorothy says, “Some of us have lives.” 

Castiel blinks at her. 

“We are… at a LARP convention.” 

“I’m here for the combat,” Dorothy says, returning to the fire making. “And the ladies,” Charlie puts in, arms full of firewood. 

“Senates are a little… geeky for my tastes,” Dorothy says, “I’ll leave that to the Deans and the Kevins of the world.” 

“You actually socialising, Cas?” Dean asks, appearing behind him with a beer and already looking significantly less stressed than he did in the car. “Miracles do happen.” Castiel would agree, if only because Dean’s general agreeableness and ability to forgive Castiel for most of his sins increases exponentially the second the step onto the field. It is a miracle as far as Castiel is concerned. It is a miracle how something like LARP can bring someone like Dean Winchester so much joy.

“Dean,” Dorothy says, “How’s the senate planning going?”

Dean narrows his eyes in a way that Castiel assumes means he knows he’s being mocked. v “Cas, you wanna sort out your crap? I just dumped it on your side of the tent.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, standing up and heading towards their bell tent, still caught on the fact that Dean Winchester is considered dorky even within these circles, which is the sort of knowledge that makes him oddly pleased and affectionate for no real reason. It’s just… he’s glad he gets to see Dean’s unaffected cool act _and_ the Dean Winchester who’s excessively invested and excited by fictional politics. 

Cas stops short when he steps inside the tent because their two single airbeds have been replaced by a double which… 

“Oh, right,” Dean says, suddenly right behind him, _much too close_ behind him. “One of the airbeds came down with a fatal case of punctures so I figured we’d take the double.”

“I see,”

“Dude, are you gonna get all prudeish about this?” Dean asks, “We sleep with them pushed up against each other anyway.” Castiel just reaches for his crew t-shirt and his robe. It’s going to be sweltering wearing both even the short distance to the crew tent, but it can’t exactly be helped. “Will it make you less uncomfortable if I tag on a no homo?”

“You know how I feel about that phrase, Dean.”

“Then quit acting like I kicked your puppy,” Dean says, standing still in the corner of their tent and staring at him. The tent’s only been pitched for half an hour, but it’s already beginning to heat up.

“I don't _have_ a puppy.”

“You got some kind of a problem with this?”

“No,”

“Okay?” Dean asks, eyebrows poised into one of his familiar questions. He’s clearly not exactly happy about Castiel’s general behaviour, lack of desire to continue LARPing or his keeping mom about Daphne (not that there is anything to _say_ about Daphne, particularly now), but his irritation is significantly diluted simply due to their location.

“Okay,” Castiel parrots back.

“Awesome,”

“I’m going to check in with the crew team before time in,” Castiel says, mostly because the tent is hot, because he is growingly wishing he’d gotten out of the entire fake-marriage before it had gotten to this point and because he would, in reality, rather be at home watching the wildlife channel on his own.

*

Castiel crews because he’s never really understood LARPing and he LARPs because he’s more or less in love with his best friend. He’s been aware of that fact for almost as long as he’s been _aware_ of Dean in general which, as Charlie has pointed out on a number of occasions, is a somewhat pathetic period of time. In general, Castiel doesn’t consider it to be much of a problem. He’s used to it. As much as it occasionally overrides his better judgement, he doesn’t entirely lack self-preservation.

However, it’s a lot harder to convince himself that he still remains his dignity, integrity and sanity when Dean stumbles into the tent shortly after midnight, the light from his wobbling torch enough to wake Castiel up. He strips off the rest of his armour, light now illuminating his skin rather than Castiel’s face, and evidentially decides it will be more comfortable to sleep topless. It is impossibly hot, with the concentrated heat of the day having not quite leaked out from the tents walls. Castiel’s not sure sleeping on top of his sleeping bag rather than in it is necessary, though, especially when he tipsily rolls into Castiel’s space and plasters himself on his right side. 

Castiel edges away to the point where they almost upturn the air mattress, before eventually poking him in the ribs in order to regain a little space. Dean mutters an apology and rolls over.

It takes a very long time for him to get back to sleep, which isn’t helped by the modified sea-chanty he can vaguely here from several camps away, or the muted sounds of late night combat (which, technically, isn’t allowed at this time of night, but he is off duty so it is not his problem), or Dean’s hourly sleep-inspired attempts to try and spoon him. 

*

“Cas, hey, Cas,” Dean says, shaking his shoulder. “Dude, get up.”

Castiel turns over and tries to bury himself in his ‘camping pillow’ (purchased by Dean and utterly pointless, given it’s almost exactly the same as a regular pillow), mostly because he’s aware that Dean is shining a torch directly into his face which means that the sun hasn’t risen yet. 

“No,”

“Time’s up, sleeping beauty.”

“Piss off, Dean,”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” 

“I sincerely doubt that’s within your power,” Castiel mutters, turning over to glare at him. It is still dark. Dean is still topless. The tent is finally an acceptable temperature. Dean does not look like a person who’s had limited sleep, which is unfair and unnecessary, particularly given Dean came to bed later than him and woke him up in the process. And then repeatedly through the night.

“You said you wanted to be seduced,” Dean says, nudging him again, “We’re gonna go watch the sun rise. Ancient courting ritual of Yesteryear. Dating back three hundred LARP years.”

“You researched this?” Castiel blinks at him. He doesn’t really know why he’s surprised by this fact, actually, because it’s Dean. 

“And I got you coffee,”

“There’s coffee?” Castiel asks, only it comes out more like a growl. Dean shoots him a grin and holds up a take-away coffee cup. “How?”

“Sweet talked the chick with the coffee stall yesterday,” Dean says, “Come on, dude, up. Time’s a-wasting.” 

“Fine,” Castiel says, wriggling out of his sleeping bag.

“You gotta drink your coffee in here though,” Dean says, as Cas tries to locate his toothbrush, his robe and potentially a LARP weapon in which to stab Dean with is because, coffee or not, it’s still obscenely early. “These cups aren’t exactly IC.” 

“You walked from the ‘chick with the coffee stall’ to this tent,” Castiel says, “The coffee stays with me.” 

“Dude, you’re gonna cause some kind of earthquake with how deep your voice is when you’ve just woke up.” Dean says, dropping his voice as he follows him out of the tent, as though the tent walls provide any noise insulation whatsoever. They’ve probably already woken several people up. “That’s some bad ass shit right there. Take the coffee. Hell, take me.” 

Castiel’s stomach twists slightly. He is never entirely sure whether he dislike those sorts of Dean-comments, or whether he craves them. Possibly both. 

“I will cause an earthquake if you wake me before sunrise ever again,” Castiel throws back, “I wasn’t aware your abs classified as IC-wear, either.” 

“That a complaint, Cas?” 

“I was merely wondering whether you were ever intending to put a shirt back on.” 

“Well, obviously,” Dean says, “I ain’t getting these abs all cut up in combat.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes and tries to pretend that he’s not enjoying himself already. 

* 

Twenty minutes later, Dean has finally put a shirt on and has lead him to the ‘West Forest’, which is more a collection of trees at the edge of the campsite but nevertheless has an impressive view of the various camps, covens and the edge of the battlefield, and then to the ‘sacred rock’ which is really just a large well-placed rock that someone drew several made up symbols on. Still, it’s a decent place to sit, especially so since Dean bought their camping pillows. 

“Now what?” Castiel asks. 

“You get caffeinated,” Dean says, “And we watch the sun rise.” 

“I maintain this isn’t as seductive as a lie-in,” 

“Well, you’re not my target audience,” Dean says, “And I reckon Emmanuel is into all the traditions and shit. Conventions.” 

“And Hunter?” 

“Willing to pander,” Dean says, leaning back on his elbows. “There’s more coffee in the flask. And food.” 

“You bought breakfast?” 

“Actually thought it would take more convincing to get you up,” Dean says, turning to catch his eye. His expressions are usually softer when they’re LARPing, but they seem more so in the muted darkness. There’s affection rather than irritation lacing his gaze, which is… good. Unusual in recent times. Castiel had almost forgotten how easy their exchanges used to be. It’s addictive as it ever was. “So, how goes celibacy, padre?” 

Right. They are LARPing. Dean has organised this because Castiel is being petulant and because Dean needs him to marry him, for plot. This entire situation is contrived. 

“Calling me ‘Padre’ isn't going to help your cause,” 

“Never did understand your career choices, Manny,” Dean says, adjusting his position on his elbows. As contrived as this whole thing may be, that’s definitely real life bleeding through. It’s not as much of an irritant as if Dean had bought it up in a normal conversation, though. It feels less like an accusation and more like resignation. 

“I suppose you wouldn't.” 

“What's that's supposed to mean?” 

“Hunter,” Castiel says (just, he caught himself before the instinctual ‘Dean’ fell out of his mouth), frowning at him. Dean sucks in a breath and leans back, tilting his head towards the sky. 

"Talk to me, man." 

Given that this has been a point of contention between them since Castiel moved out (which is absurd, given how long it’s been since that was), they probably should have talked about this previously. The thin mask of their role play characters makes it slightly easier to answer. 

"I know... the priesthood isn't what you would have picked out for me," Cas says, "But, I would be an unsuccessful warrior. Battle strategies aren't my forte. My work my, uh, religion gives me a sense of doing something valuable. There's human dignity in what I do." 

"Well the first part of that is bullcrap," Dean says, "Your... swordsmanship is kick ass. Your better at strategy than I ever was. Other stuff is of value too. I don't know, Manny, know I've been acting like a kid about it. Just always figured it would be me and you, swords ready, shields raised, battling it out till the end. The... finding religion stuff caught me unawares." 

"It’s good for me," 

"I know," Dean says, "Just thought I was good for you too." 

That feels like being winded. 

"It’s not one or the other," 

"Feels like it, sometimes," Dean says, "Especially when I've got the impenetrable wall of your celibacy pact going against me." 

“I don’t really see how the two are related,” Castiel says. He’s also not entirely sure what that corresponds to in real world terms, if they are still having a double-layered conversation. If it is supposed to symbolise anything at all, rather than just being part of the act. 

“Come on, we got a history,” 

“A history,” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, looking at him in a way that _feels_ real, even in Castiel logically knows that it is not. “A whole frigging heavenly host of almosts and bad timing.” 

Castiel swallows. His previously sluggishness has evaporated without him topping up his coffee, because he doesn’t know what that means or whether it’s supposed to mean anything at all. He has, on more than one occasion, thought that they _might_ be on the cusp of something, but chalked it up to overthinking (and, probably, wishful thinking). Several times he’s even thought Dean might be thinking the same thing. Nothing ever came of any of it. 

It was his brother who pointed out that it was getting past the point of being healthy. Who asked _why_ he was subjecting himself to an excessive and exhausting commute in order to stay living with his college mate when he could easily afford a place of his own. Castiel couldn’t think of a rational answer. There wasn’t one. There was no rational answer. Not even _almost_ one. 

“You uh… want more coffee?” Dean asks, in a way that makes him think that wasn’t the intended end of that question. Castiel holds out his cup for a top up. 

“The sun rise is very aesthetically appealing,” Castiel says, largely to break the silence. The mismatched collection of bell tents, the extinguished fires and the other quirks of IC camping look more impressive framed by the orange-pink sky. It is nice. He can understand why this might have been branded by some as romantic, even if the some in question are largely fictional. Mostly, it just reminds him how much these events mean to the people who put the time, money and effort into these tents, camps and costumes. It’s about as impressive as the sunrise. 

“That both of you talking?” 

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Hunter, there’s only me here.” 

“Jackass,” 

“Insulting isn’t going to win me over, either.” 

“The hell it ain’t,” Dean says, turning to grin at him, “Been insulting you pretty much our whole friendship. It’s like a drug to you.” “If by insult you mean gratuitously disrespect,” Castiel says, “Dragging me into your frequent messes. Calling upon me when I can helpful. Leading to my eventual disgrace… then, yes, it has become somewhat of a habit.” 

“Saved my ass enough times,”

“Always happy to bleed for knights of Moondoor.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dean says, “I need you, man. Useful or not. None of this means anything without you.” Castiel blinks at him. “This would be where I kissed you.”

It takes him a few seconds to re-centre himself after that comment.

“How?”

“Huh?”

“How would you, Hunter, kiss me?” Castiel asks, which gets a half-blank half-confused expression from Dean. “With tongue, for example.”

“Depends whether you kiss me back,”

“That depends _how_ you kiss me.”

“Dude, this got weird,” Dean says, looking deliberately away and taking a breath.

“Where are you going to put your hands?”

“Be seeing if I could cut myself on that jawline of yours, maybe.”

“Cupping my face?”

“Yes, Cas, your goddamn face. That pass your test?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “That’s fine.” 

“Fine,” Dean repeats, rolling his eyes. “Awesome.”

“The sun’s up,”

“So’s my goddamn blood pressure,” Dean mutters.

Castiel’s not entirely sure whether he was supposed to hear that.

*

They’re in the middle of battlefield, which essentially means that Castiel is trying to avoid a large number of men with too much facial hair wielding foam swords. He’s ‘staying close’ to Charlie and Dean because they might need him for some kind of ritual (Castiel stopped listening when they said he didn’t have to understand what was going on, just ‘stay close’), whilst they fight off ‘Orcs’ and an enemy coven. There is a large ginger man yelling made up words and waving a fake-axe around. To his left, someone is dying dramatically on the floor. The whole thing is quite alarming.

Then Dean’s down and it takes Cas a second to register that he’s on the floor due to an IC injury rather than an OC injury, and that a helpful prop person has arrived with the fake blood. 

“That’s a fatal hit unless healed magically,” The referee declares, hand in the air and donned in a black and yellow striped robe. “Counting down from two minutes… now.” 

“Celeste?” Dean asks. 

“We’re out of healing potions,” Charlie says, sword still out. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“Well, shit,” Dean says, “Emmanuel, hey, get over here a sec.”

“Are you dying?” Castiel asks, bending down beside him on the grass. There’s fake-blood running down his neck.

“Straight to the point, as always,” Dean smiles, “Yeah, kinda. So, last words.”

“One minutes thirty seconds.”

“I wanted to apologise for earlier,”

“Why?”

“Cause the celibacy thing… it’s a huge deal for you, Manny, and I kind of feel like…” Dean chokes, which Castiel thinks may be adding a little bit too much unnecessary drama, but is nevertheless quite effective in racking up the tension. “…like I barged in, all guns blazing, without getting across that this is kind of a huge deal for me too. So I wanted to…”

“One minute,”

“Well, I thought that if you were replacing a vow with something else then you wouldn’t be breaking your word as much as… just making a new vow, so…”

“You’re _dying_ ,” Castiel says, and as much as he is aware that this is _not real_ he’s still somehow wound up bent over him, Dean’s fake-blood smeared all over his hands.

“I figured if you married me then you’d just be making a new kind of promise,”

“You’re _proposing_? Now?”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Was kind of looking for an answer pretty quick here, Emmanuel.” 

“Hunter –“

“– I’d get down on one knee, but…”

“Twenty seconds.” 

Yes,” Castiel says, heart beating much too quickly. The woman counting down loudly behind him is not helping this feel any less stressful. There is a lot of fake blood smeared on Dean’s chest. “Yes.” 

“Yes what?” 

“Ten seconds.” 

“Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

“Awesome.” 

“Totally kidding about not having a healing potion,” Charlie beams, whirling round and ripping the tab of one of the laminate healing potions. “Full body heal, bitches.” 

“Full body heal, check. Damage reversed. Three seconds to spare.” The referee says, taking the potion card off Charlie and then raising an eyebrow at the pair of them, still on the grass, still covered in fake blood. “And congratulations, boys.” 

“That was _awesome_.” Charlie grins, pulling her sword back out. The battle seemed to have died down since Dean was injured, but that might just be because the axe-wielding ginger seems to have been taken down by a rogue shadow orc and he was making most of the noise. 

“Give me a hand up, hubbie?” Dean suggests, positively beaming. 

“You planned this,” Castiel says, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“Maybe,” 

“You _assbutt_.” Castiel says, pushing him back down to the floor rather than helping him up and standing up, fuming. 

“Come on,” Dean’s laughing, “That was a bad ass proposal.” 

“You are incorrigible.” 

“I’m adorable.” 

“I’m not marrying you,” 

“But you accepted so beautifully,” Dean grins, standing up to fall into step with him, “And you know you’re a man of your word. I just reminded you how bad it was suck to lose me… Come on, Manny, you gotta admit, I make a compelling case...” 

* 

Reverend Emmanuel Allen and Hunter of Yesteryer were eternally bonded under the light of the solstice-sun after years of companionship. For the former, this marked the end of a lifelong vow to celibacy and, for the latter, a reputation of flighty promiscuity. 

Celeste Middleton, formerly Queen of Moons, conducted the service. 

First, came the traditional tying of the hands and the vows. Celeste of Moons wrapped the ceremonial ribbon around their joint hands, declared their commitment to the Gods, invoked the supremacy of love and, by the power vested in her by the moon and the stars, pronounced them forever joined. Celeste then declared “you must now kiss to seal the deal” which was met with a few seconds of silence, Hunter of Yesteryer turning to gape at Celeste and the Reverend Emmanuel Allen rolling his eyes. 

After a few seconds of pointed staring, the good Reverend pulled Hunter of Yesteryer into a chaste kiss by dragging him in via his belt. 

Hunter of Yesteryer smirked and said “Hello, Padre.” 

The good reverend rolled his eyes again. 

* 

They’re halfway home before the outside word begins to bleed back into the car, in the form of an ill-timed phone call. Castiel has been unwillingly dozing for the past hour of the journey. He had wanted to continue talking to Dean (it’s been a long time since they’ve spent any real quality time together, after all), but the exhaustion got the better of him again. 

“Mind getting that?” Dean asks, nodding towards the pocket in his jeans, which is blaring AC/DC and apparently the reason why he woke up. He doesn’t and extracts it from Dean’s left pocket with relative ease, turning it over and glance at the screen. 

“It’s someone called Aaron.” 

“I should probably answer that,” Dean asks, holding out his hand. 

“Only if you pull over first,” 

“All right, Mr Road Safety,” Dean says with an eye roll, glancing over his shoulder before pulling over. The road’s quiet, but that’s not really the point. 

“Here,” 

“Thanks,” Dean deadpans, before turning to his phone. “Aaron, hey…. Yeah, I’m not gonna be back at a reasonable hour. Kind of beat, too… Friday? It’s a pretty busy week, actually, man….” Dean pauses to listen for a few seconds, fingers dancing over the steering wheel. “No, you’re right, I’m not really feeling it anymore… look, sorry.” Dean glances at Castiel for a few seconds before turning away. “Guess you could say I’ve gotta couple of things to work out... Yeah, that probably is the douchey version of it’s not you it’s me.” Dean’s silent for a few seconds then laughs, lips quirking upwards. “Yeah, you too, dude. Good luck out there.” 

He slips his phone back into his pocket, calm as anything, and has pulled back onto the road before Castiel has managed to work out what exactly just happened. 

“Was that a _break-up_?” Castiel asks, a strange sense of dread settling in his stomach. 

“Pretty strong word for three hook-ups and a date, but I guess,” 

“You broke up with someone, over the phone, whilst I was in the car?” 

He’s always hated the callous way that Dean treats relationship and all people that haven’t been selected for the Dean Winchester loyalty club, who may be few but receive more loyalty than Castiel can really conceive of. It reminds him of the fact that Dean is thoughtless demanding; that he expects Castiel to always be at LARP events, that he expected him to continue living with him even when it was difficult to be there, that he has always expected Castiel to drop everything and come when he calls without even realising that he does it. It makes him feel like an idiot for putting so much faith in him. 

“Look, that wasn’t exactly the plan. He figured I didn’t sound too eager and asked if I was still with the program. Saved both of us some time.” 

“I assume that means you’re no longer with Lisa?” Castiel asks. He’s no doubt overreacting, but he feels indignant, both for himself and for this Aaron. He’s frustrated. He’s unfairly irritated that this is the first he’s heard about this Aaron, or about the presumed break-up with Lisa (as much as he had thought that would happen) and a renewed fear that he, Castiel, is going to chucked out of the loyalty-club, if he hasn’t been already. That conning Dean into spending time with him via contrived marriage plots won’t be enough and that he will lose Dean any away. 

“Well given the other option makes me a cheater, I’d do more than frigging assume, Cas,” Dean says, his scowl returning. 

“When did you break up with Lisa?” 

“Was pretty much a done deal the last time I saw you,” Dean says, “Couple of days after? Whatever.” 

“You didn’t tell me,” 

“How’s Daphne?” Castiel has no reasonable response to that because it’s completely fair, so he folds his eyes and stares out the window instead. He’s aware that he looks like a sulking four year old, but he can’t seem to help it. “Look,” Dean says, after a few miles of tense silent, “Whatever. I don’t exactly get why you’re throwing a goddamn tantrum, but we were barely even seeing each other, dude, and he bought it up… but _I’m sorry_ for somehow offending you, Cas. Can we just not argue?” 

“Okay,” Castiel agrees. 

“Okay.” 

Apparently not arguing means driving the rest of the way home in silence. 

* 

“You wanna get dinner or something this week?” Dean asks, turning towards him after he’s pulled outside of Castiel’s house. They’ve exchanged approximately three sentence in the past two hours which, once upon a time, would not have been awkward in the slightest. “Or catch a movie. Or I could cook for you or something.” 

“Will you actually turn up if I agree?” 

This was evidentially not the right thing to say. 

“You make it so fucking hard, Cas,” Dean says, slamming out of the car to throw open the trunk and get Castiel’s belongings. It doesn’t feel insignificant that this is the second time they’ve parted on similar terms. 

“What’s _it_?” 

“Everything, man. Building bridges. Being your best friend. Working this out.” 

“There’s nothing _to_ work out.” Cas says, as Dean aggressively lugs his case to his front door. He used to come in for a soda (Cas wouldn’t let him have beer), or for dinner, or just to watch crappy TV like they used to. “This is just adulthood, Dean.” 

“This is just bullshit, is what it is.” 

“Dinner this week?” Castiel says, voice forcefully calm. Dean looks at him. Really looks at him. 

“Forget it,” Dean says, then gets back in his car. It feels a little like being slapped round the face, but he might not mean it. Dean says a lot of things when he’s irritated which he later takes back. Castiel is just going to work on the assumption that Dean will text him in a few days’ time asking him if he’s free that evening, which Castiel probably won’t be, but he will make time nevertheless because he has always made more allowances for Dean Winchester than he probably should. 

The driver’s window is still wound down, so Cas makes a point to lean down to his level, hand resting over the window so he can’t drive off before they’ve reached a slightly better conversation point. _Can we just not argue_? 

“I had a good weekend,” Castiel says. 

“Same,” Dean agrees, the corners of his mouth softening slightly. “See you soon, man.” 

“Yes,” Cas agrees, standing up and watching Dean drive away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I thought I'd have more time after finishing up my degree but it turns out moving, many many job interviews, holidaying etc. take up a hell of a lot of time...


	3. Autumn Equinox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s true,” Dorothy says, still sounding bored, “It’s all there in the stock markets.”
> 
>  
> 
> “The stock markets,” Cas says, because he’s actually astounded by this new titbit of information about the Moondoor economy and he didn’t think he still had the capacity to be surprised by the complexity of LARP worlds. That, or Charlie made the whole thing up with Dorothy’s reluctant help. Dorothy, at least, seems to be as bemused by the concept as he is. “There are _stock markets_.”

They do go for dinner slightly over a week after the last LARP event, and it's glorious. Dean's tendency to find himself funnier than anyone else does, his wealth of bad jokes and unyielding loyalty are as endearing and enthralling as ever, and Castiel is in a good mood for the rest of the week. They text at their previous usual rate (around twenty messages a day), and just as Castiel is becoming a phone junkie it all dries up completely. He hears virtually nothing for the following two weeks before the next event, till the usual text message saying when he's going to pick Castiel appears on his phone.

It's still summer by all accounts, as all the LARP events tend to take place during the several months of the year it's not utterly insane to camp, but nevertheless the events have a tendency to just _happen_ to be scheduled during extreme weather conditions. In this instance, they're predicted a whole weekend of rain, which Castiel wouldn't have been inclined to pitch a tent in even if Dean was still answering his text messages at top speed. With the fact that Dean more or less ignored the last four, he very nearly cancels the whole thing all together. 

He's glad he doesn't forgo the whole thing when he climbs into the passenger side of Bobby's pick up, depositing his duffle on the back seat (it's fuller than usual due to all the extra layers he's packed. Chances are, he's going to get wet several times over the course of the weekend; worse, he suspects Charlie won't be done with her scheme to get him to continue LARPing yet, which means he'll probably be on the field for longer than necessary. He only owns one robe). He’s glad because Dean looks more stressed than Castiel has seen him for a long time. Neither the radio nor the stereo is on, which is very telling, as is the fact that a little of the tension drops away from his shoulders as Castiel sits down. If there’s a reason for Dean’s sudden silence, he would rather be camping in the rain for a chance to find out what’s wrong than be dry at home. 

"Hello, Dean," 

"Hey," Dean returns, looking at him for longer than necessary. 

"The forecast is rain," 

"Working in your fancy-ass office has done a real number on you," Dean says, reversing out the drive, "Scared of a little rain?" 

"Twice the average monthly rainfall for this time of year in two days," 

"Better hit the road before the grounds too wet to pitch up then," Dean says, forcing a grin. "Lighten up, Cas." 

"I am light," 

"Oh yeah, you're a ray of fucking sunshine." 

"Are you okay?" 

"No," Dean says, hands clenched on the wheel, "but I get to pretend to be this weekend with no one calling me out on it, so let's go with it." 

"You are aware I'm here for you," 

"Our here's aren't always lined up," Dean says, "But yeah, I know." Dean says, then another half an hour down the road, "Thanks." 

"You're my best friend, Dean, you don't need to thank me," 

"Reckon the rains gonna hold out till tomorrow," Dean says, not looking at him, then, "Wanna pick the station?" which is how Castiel knows that whatever’s wrong is serious. That doesn't stop him taking up Dean's offer of picking the music, though. 

It starts raining thirty miles out from the campsite and by the time they've pitched the tent, they both have to peel their jeans off their skin and resign their shoes to being thick with mud until after they leave. Dean trudges off to the crew tent to charge his phone (which is unusual, because Dean usually takes LARPing as an opportunity to eschew technology and his technological related commitments), but comes back with two burgers. Those who are on site for the beginning of the event (less than usual, given its a longer event and starts on a Thursday, which means Castiel has begrudgingly booked a day’s holiday to sit in the rain) have long since given up building a fire, and instead they play poker in Charlie's tent with LARP currency until he's inadvertently cleaned out the whole coven and is almost falling asleep on Dean's shoulder. The usual magic isn’t working as well as usual, because Dean is still quiet and distracted. 

When they finally get into their sleeping bags, the rain is a comforting almost lullaby, the tent is warmer than expected, and Dean is there, a warm lump beside him on the double airbed, texting late into the night. 

* 

It’s a mark of how exhausted he is that he manages to actually sleep-in despite the tent. He woke up at what Dean informed him was around seven due to the downpour of rain hitting the tent, which didn’t endear him to the prospect of getting up, so he simply rolled over and went back to sleep. He didn’t _mean_ to roll into Dean’s space in the process, but he’s somehow still curled up against the warm line of Dean’s side when he wakes up for a second time, which turns out to only be because Dean is speaking to him. 

“Cas, up, Emmanuel is required for an emergency meeting about something of ‘grave importance’ so we’ve got to make a move,” Dean says, propped up on his elbows but still in his sleeping bag. Without the sleeping bag, Castiel is almost entirely sure he’d have done something awful whilst they were sleeping, like tangle their legs together or settling even closer to Dean. He’s never been so grateful for their existence, as either sweltering or freezing as they usually are. 

“My sleep is also of grave importance,” 

“Hey, it’s not me getting you up this time,” Dean says, looking down at him with a downright affectionate expression, which he hasn’t earned for a very long time. “It’s also nearly half ten.” 

He seems less stressed this morning, at least, even if it’s wholly unusual that Dean hasn’t been awake and in costume for hours. This field is Dean’s happy place. 

“Why are you still here?” 

“Didn’t wanna disturb you and apparently I’m your hot water bottle, or something,” Dean says, reaching a hand out towards him then aborting the motion, coughing, and deliberately looking back at his cell again. “Charlie text me from HQ. Said you’d probably want tea as you slept well but just to bring over a flask of hot water. I’ve got tea bags and coffee somewhere.” 

“You don’t like tea,” 

“Yeah, but, I like you so…” 

“So you bought tea bags for me?” Castiel asks, voice still gravelly from just having woken up. 

“Dude, don’t make it weird. It’s a couple of tea bags,” Dean says, “That mean I’ve said enough to get you out of bed?” 

“I’d question whether this classifies as a bed,” Castiel says, “But yes. Are you getting up too?” 

“Well you were my only excuse for staying in,” Dean returns, “And we’re both needed for this meeting.” 

Castiel can’t think of any reasonable reason why he would be required for any kind of meeting, but given Charlie is involved it probably doesn’t need to be a reasonable reason. 

* 

“The kingdom is questioning the validity of your marriage,” Dorothy says, resewing the leather hilt usually attached to her belt in front of what would have been the fire, if it had ever stopped raining long enough for them to light it. Currently, it’s just spitting, but he’s still going to be soaked by the time this conversation has finished. Castiel isn’t entirely sure how Charlie roped Dorothy into this conversation because as far as he’s aware, this sort of conversation would classify as the ‘political crap’ that Dorothy usually did not engage in. She doesn’t look especially happy to be involved either, although that could just be because her IC character has a tendency to always be miserable and gruff. 

“Well the kingdom can go fuck itself,” Dean says, pacing somewhere behind him. 

“Hey, this is serious,” Charlie say, “If the marriage isn’t a love match, then the bonding ritual doesn’t stick and our rituals and magic is still, like, problematically diluted.” 

“But we’re totally in love,” Dean says, gesturing towards where Castiel is sipping on his illicit tea wearing his robe with his pyjamas still on underneath, which he’s sure is visible to anyone paying any kind of attention. “I mean, what a catch.” 

“Be careful,” Castiel advises, taking another sip of his tea. 

“So, it doesn’t matter,” 

“Unfortunately, it does,” Dorothy voices, glancing up at the pair of them, “Think past your brawn for long enough to consider the bigger picture and then we’ll talk.” 

“What?” Dean asks, frowning at her back. 

“How do you _think_ we fund your fancy weapons, dude,” Charlie says, “We need people to contract us to do crap, and right now we don’t have their _trust_. As far as the average muggle is concerned, we’re still drained of power from the Archmage’s death, and we’re trying to drum up business with this fake marriage to get the capital to buy a little more power. Our competitor’s businesses are soaring.” 

“It’s true,” Dorothy says, still sounding bored, “It’s all there in the stock markets.” 

“The stock markets,” Cas says, because he’s actually astounded by this new titbit of information about the Moondoor economy and he didn’t think he still had the capacity to be surprised by the complexity of LARP worlds. That, or Charlie made the whole thing up with Dorothy’s reluctant help. Dorothy, at least, seems to be as bemused by the concept as he is. “There are _stock markets_.” 

“Just because you’re more interested in killing things than the welfare of the common man,” Charlie begins, “Doesn’t mean the rest of us have forgotten what we’re fighting for, Hunter. I used to _govern_ these lands. These are my common men. _I didn’t promote you from Handmaiden to receive such disrespect_.” 

“Okay, okay,” Dean interjects, holding up his hands, “What, exactly, can we do to help the goddamn economy?” 

“Be seen together,” Charlie says, “Go on a couple of dates in the Kingdom. Make out in public. That kind of thing.” 

“Time the fuck out,” Dean says, raising a hand in the air, “ _Make out_?” 

“Problem?” Charlie asks, also raising her hand. Dorothy rolls her eyes but raises her hand too, which leaves only Castiel with is hand down. He isn’t particularly inclined to let go of his tea with either of his hands, but does so anyway. It’s easier than facing the consequences. 

“Yeah there’s a frigging problem. Cas has a _girlfriend_. You think she’s cool with that because it’s LARP?” 

“No he doesn’t,” Charlie says, “Right?” 

“Right,” Castiel agrees. Dean gapes at him. 

“And you’re totally single too,” Charlie says, “And you’ve made out before.” 

Dorothy raises an eyebrow at him at that, but Castiel is too distracted by the statement that Dean is also single. As far as he was aware, he’d known that was the official line (not that those official lines seem to correspond much to the truth in recent times), but Dean’s current preoccupation with his phone had made him wonder. He’s never known Dean to disappear to the crew tent to charge his cell on the first night. If he hasn’t been contacting a romantic interest, Castiel’s unsure who he’s so intent on contacting. It must be Sam, which could go some way to explaining why he’s so stressed. 

“Like _a million years ago_. In college. After fifteen shots of Tequila.” 

“Technically, _you_ had fifteen shots of Tequila. I believe I had eight shots of Tequila and four shots of vodka, because you finished the bottle but insisted I should still attempt to catch up.” 

“So you don’t have a problem with this?” Dean asks. 

Castiel most definitely _does_ have a problem with this, because it’s not good for his sanity to spend the weekend locked-lipped with Dean only to brush it under the carpet as soon as he’s taken off his damnable robes, but he’s offended by how offended Dean is by the very suggestion at making out with him. He’d been perturbed by how utterly unwilling Dean was to kiss him after Charlie prompted it during their fake-wedding ceremony (and, really, Charlie has a lot to answer for at the moment), but this unapologetic reluctance is… well, it’s borderline insulting. 

“No, I don’t,” Castiel lies, meeting his eyes to make a point. Behind Dean’s back, Charlie is giving him the thumbs up. 

“You think we should just rock up to the IC bar and start necking?” 

“I merely don’t see the problem with rocking up to the IC bar and ‘necking’ for the sake of the common man and the delicate economic situation we’ve created.” 

“You don’t see the problem?” 

“No,” Castiel says, even though he’s becoming vaguely aware that he’s going to regret it. He knows Dean and he knows Dean won’t stand to be outdone. He could probably predict the effect those words are going to have. 

“Fine,” Dean says, eyes narrowing, “Fine.” 

“Fine?” 

"Hit me with your best shot, Cas,” 

“I find you assimilating kissing with shooting disturbing.” 

“Let me know when you’re good to go out into the big bad world and gets some DAs going,” Dean says, then he’s storming back off towards the tent, probably to finish putting on the rest of his armour. 

“Displays of affection,” Charlie adds, before Castiel can question it. It’s then she notices Castiel’s expression and backs away slightly. “So, uh, meeting adjourned. Good job, guys. I’m gonna… uh, go rendezvous with a vampire.” 

“Charlie,” 

“Laters, Cas!” Charlie says, too high pitched, then she’s hightailing it out of there before Castiel can yell at her for putting him in this position in the first place. 

“Good luck,” Dorothy intones, not looking up from her sewing. 

* 

He's put his crew t-shirt on purely for the sake of it acting as an all access pass for him to find someone in the plot crew to smite with his eyes, because whomever Charlie has enlisted to help with her scheming should have more integrity than to be distracted by her petty matchmaking. Charlie may be an ex-Queen, but she shouldn't have this much control and, more to the point, he doesn't know where Charlie is for him to yell at. She isn't answering his texts, which could mean anything from her dodging the conversation to her being somewhere on the IC field (although he suspects she is definitely not having a rendezvous with a vampire. He doesn’t think there are vampires in Moondoor, although he has been incorrect about these things before). The latter is more probable and someone from the plot is more likely to know where she is, given they have radio accesses to the strategically placed referees. 

Except, the plot tent is empty but for a couple enthusiastically engaged in swapping saliva and Ash. He’s not sure how to approach the couple, so settles on addressing Ash instead. 

"Hello, Ash," Castiel says, frowning at him. He's always impressed by the amount of electronic equipment involved in any given event, because the effort required to transport the several computers and the iPads synced to the central character database is extraordinary. It's more jarring today because it still has not stopped raining. He's fearful for Ash’s laptop, even if this tent does currently appear to be holding out the rain (unlike the Crew tent, which is littered with buckets to catch the leaks). 

"Give us a second, dude," Ash says holding up a hand and draining his beer in the other. Castiel gives him a second, then another eight. The couple do not resurface for air. "Damn, another recession averted. Good job I put on my pants." 

"You’re in charge of the economy?" Castiel asks, leaning forward to squint at the laptop screen, which currently appears to be a number of complicating graphs that he can’t understand. 

"Micro economy," Ash says, "Biggest challenge is every event each player gets a couple of coins in their player pack, getting more players all the time, so printing more every event. Constant devaluation of currency. Or, should be, but the prices of all the goods is staying the same, so it's just affects trades which is damn near -" 

"So there are stock markets," 

"Set ‘em up turn of this Moondoor year," Ash says, "Keeping it real." 

"You're no longer playing?" 

"Back stage kind of guy," Ash says. 

“Did Charlie ask you to sink the value of our coven’s stocks?” 

“No can do,” Ash says, “That’s all determined externally. If the people stop buying…” Ash continues, pausing as his radio goes off, with someone paging a Dr Badass about a lack of hot water in the IC shower cubicles and a toilet blockage. "Dr Badass here and hearing you, I'll be over there in three minutes. Over." 

"Shouldn't that be left to maintenance?" 

“That's me,” Ash says, “This is just a side project that Becky is indulging me in. You wanna know why your company’s crashing… I’d try looking at the player packs. Or, here...” Ash says, picking up one of the slips of paper usually given out at the beginning of the event and handing it to him, before grabbing a hardhat and reaching for his radio. “Dr Badass here, heading to the east IC toilet block. Over.” 

Castiel is busy examining the slip of paper which explains a great deal, given he’s entirely sure it’s a draft of the usual newsletter suggesting that the marriage between Hunter of Yesteryear and Reverend Emmanuel was probably fake and unlike to increase anyone’s stocks of magical power. He is going to _kill_ Charlie and he is probably going to enjoy it. 

“Castiel, right?” A voice asks and, apparently, the couple behind him are temporarily done with each other. The owner of the voice is Chuck, who’s the head writer and therefore almost definitely responsible for this entire fiasco. The woman turns out to be Becky, which also makes a great deal of sense, because she’s more or less in charge of this whole venture. He wasn’t aware they were now _together_ but, again, it makes sense. 

“Are you responsible for this?” Castiel demands, brandishing the slip of paper at him. Chuck seems to visibly shrink which Castiel is taking as a _yes_. He throws the piece of paper at his head. It doesn’t make him feel much better. 

“Charlie –” 

“– I don’t _care_ what Charlie said,” Castiel begins, fully ready to vent his frustration by yelling at the both of them and possibly persuading them to change the plot-situation before he has to make out with Dean in public (or, really, at all). It may be partially his own fault for pretending he didn’t have a problem with it, but that’s not currently the point. 

“Here,” Becky says, and thrusts her phone in his direction. On the screen is a photo of the inside of Dean’s bell tent, clearly taken this morning, with Castiel curled up against Dean’s side and Dean, awake and on his phone, distractedly running a hand through Castiel’s hair. “Charlie took it.” 

“Why was she in our tent?” 

“It was nine and Dean hadn’t surfaced,” Becky shrugged, “Thought you might be dead or something.” 

“I see,” Castiel says, and he actually does. He thinks of the aborted motion Dean made earlier and Dean packing him tea bags despite his ongoing vendetta against the drink, and he thinks of the last LARP event where Dean described their characters relationship as _a whole frigging heavenly host of almosts and bad timing._ He thinks of Dean running his fingers through his hair whilst he was asleep, a phantom touch that he wishes he’d been conscious for, and wonders whether he’d been aware he was doing it. He hands back the phone. 

Whilst he isn’t enamoured with the idea that Charlie both took the photograph _and_ sent it to Becky, its par for the course as far as Charlie is concerned (he is still going to kill her). The LARP Gods being involved in her matchmaking scheme is worrying, but… 

“Might be too late to stop it,” Chuck says, “But I could send round another notice to all the camps if you give me a couple of hours –“ 

“– don’t bother,” Castiel says curtly, then exists the tent to find Dean feeling distractingly nervous (but not before he spends all his poker winnings on as many stocks in their coven/magic buisness that he's able to purchase). 

* 

“You seem tense,” Dean says, when they’re sat in the IC bar with two home brewed pints in front of them. It’s a fairly accurate assessment because Castiel is definitely on edge, overthinking and also, wearing a slightly soggy robe that’s now weighed down by a significant amount of mud. It still has not stopped raining. “You don’t wanna go through this with, you just gotta say,” 

“Is this an attempt at stalling?” Castiel asks, settling under Dean’s arm for the sake of their supposed need to prove the validity of the fake marriage and because it’s cold. Dean’s armour is more waterproof than his robe and Dean is always warm. 

“Just offering you an out.” 

“I have been _out_ for a very long time.” 

“Alright, alright,” Dean says, taking a long drink of his beer, before turning to look at him. “How do you wanna…?” 

Castiel decides to save them both an awkward conversation, reaches forward to brush the line of beer-foam from off Dean’s upper lip, then reaches forward to kiss him. Obviously, it’s glorious. He hadn’t been expecting anything less, but the way his stomach clenches is still painful, even if it’s soon blocked out by Dean reaching out to curve a hand around his neck, thumb tracing his jawline. 

They have technically done this before, although that was such a non-event and so long ago that he’s slightly baffled that Charlie even knows about it. He remembers a clumsy connection of lips, that Dean tasted like salt from the Tequila shots, and both of them drawing away at about the same time for Dean to declare that he was ‘ _sooo drunk_.’ Shortly after they both fell asleep on the sofa. They were both too hungover for it to be awkward the next morning and it was hardly worth discussing; they didn’t quite pretend it hadn’t happened, it was just that barely anything _had_ happened. Several weeks later Cas agreed to start attending LARP events. 

It wasn’t anything like this, though, where Dean’s lips are careful and soft. They’re close enough that Castiel can feels the lines of Dean’s armour through his robe. It’s probably excessive for the purpose, which is a ridiculous one in the first place, because Cas is sure that a closed-mouth, brief imitation of a kiss would have done the job. This is the real deal. 

“That’ll probably do it,” Dean says, pulling away, not looking at him and finishing his pint extremely quickly. 

* 

"You didn't tell me about breaking up with Daphne,” Dean says, the next time they’re alone together, which happens to be long after night’s fallen (along with a significant amount of rain), when they’re both back in their sleeping bags and not sleeping. He’d disappeared to crew for a period after their fake date because he needed more space than this campsite can allow, but had to settle for the distance hiding in the crew tent would grant him. He aches every time that he thinks about it. He’s an idiot for not preventing it whilst he still could, photograph of Dean running his fingers through Castiel’s hair or not. 

"If you'd listened to me in the first place, you would have known that it was not serious,” Castiel replies into the dark, drawing his sleeping bag closer around him. 

"She had a key to your apartment." 

"She was very insistent about watering my plants. I'm not entirely sure she was a very stable individual." 

"Because she cared about your plants?" 

"No, those two comments were unrelated." 

Dean huffs a laugh at that. He sounds happy, although Castiel wouldn’t be able to pinpoint why, because he hasn’t sounded happy at any other point of the weekend. Castiel certainly isn’t happy right now. 

"It’s just," Dean begins, pauses, and Castiel can feel his chest rising and falling due to the airbed and hear his every breath in the quietude of the tent, "Well, first time in just about forever we've both been single at the same time." 

Castiel tries very hard not to breathe, because that will give him away, and he's not sure that he can live with that. His heart shouldn’t be beating this fast given he is lying as still as he possibly can, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t. 

"I suppose it is," Castiel says, after a too long pause where he attempted to gather his composure. 

"Two years, maybe," Dean says, "Lot’s changed in those two years." 

"Yes," 

Dean doesn't say anything more on the subject and Castiel is too scared to, so neither of them say anything at all, even if he knows that they're both awake for a long time. 

* 

They strategically kiss several more times over the course of Saturday and it feels too real. Dean insists he comes out onto the battlefield again (although he did promise no more proposals) and pulls him in for a kiss amidst all the fighting, a quick brief thing, then beams at him in such a way that Castiel _knows_ he’s thinking about how ‘frigging majestic’ and ‘badass’ the whole move was, even though Castiel was too surprise to respond. It’s oddly infectious and far too close to how he always thought it would be, which makes it difficult for Castiel not to smile back. He still _aches_ to prolong every touch (Dean has always been tactile) and every look in a way that he hasn’t for years, because Castiel has a great amount of experience in resisting the urge to gravitate towards Dean. As a result, he just agrees when Dean tries to talk him into sneaking them both in cheeseburgers (“dude, no one can accuse us of not being dedicated to the beautiful game after today. Let’s have a damn burger”), which is how he ends up being pulled into crew duties. 

“Cas,” Kevin says, “Hey, Cas, there’s a kid over by the Academy who’s slipped. She’s twisted her ankle pretty bad and we’re trying to find her Dad.” 

“You want me to find someone with a radio?” Castiel asks, putting the take away bag of cheeseburgers into the leather bag Dean insisted he needed to wear with his robe and glancing back towards the crew tent. 

“Her Dad’s a Moons Separatist. Should be near the knight’s camp. Girl’s around eight.” 

“What’s her name?” 

“Ethelberga,” 

“Her real name, Kevin?” 

“Oh, Kate Bloomington,” Kevin says, “Dad’s called Joe,” 

Castiel nods then turns back around to head to the crew tent to find someone with a radio.

In the end, Ash just gives him the radio because he’s still trying to fix the portaloos and to get the campsite access to hot water, and apparently neither of those things are made easier with a radio than without. Getting a referee near the knight’s camp is another thing entirely, and Castiel is just about to give up and head there himself when _Dean_ answers his call on the radio. 

“What’s up, Cas?” 

“There’s a child hurt and we’re trying to locate her father. Why do you have a radio?” 

“Hello to you too, Cas. Where am I headed?” 

“Knight’s Camp,” 

“Gotcha,” Dean returns, his voice crackling over the line, “Charlie’s on a referee shift and she went to the Queen’s room. You headed back to the kid?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, turning towards the academy. 

“This Dad got a name?” 

“Joe Bloomington. Apparently, he’s a Moons Separatist,” Castiel says, which is when someone collides with him, then the collision is matched with a shock of cold, and Castiel is swearing down the radio line because _Garth had been carrying a bucket of ice_ before he had walked into him. Then Garth is apologising and trying to pat his robe down, which doesn’t change the fact that he is suddenly freezing, nor does it save the ice. 

“It’s for that kid’s ankle,” Garth says, “Man, I’m sorry,” 

“Its fine,” Castiel hisses, “I’m headed that way myself.” 

“You okay there, Cas?” Dean asks from the radio, sounding distinctly amused. 

“I am _cold_ ,” Castiel says through gritted teeth, which gets a laugh. 

“At the Moons Separatist now, should be with you in ten. Where are you?” 

“The Academy,” Castiel says, then shoves the radio into the right pocket of his robe (as his left one is still wet), then turns towards Garth. “Why wasn’t she with her father in the first place?” 

“Awh, she was hanging out with her friend’s Mom when she took the tumble,” Garth says, falling into step with him. Castiel is too irritable to really want Garth to be there, but he is very good with children. 

The girl is still crying when they get there, although Garth does an excellent job of calming her down (and somehow persuading Cas to use the material of his robes and the non-spilt ice to fashion an ice pack). The girl’s friend’s mother more or less has control of the situation, but it’s still a blessed relief when Dean shows up with the man who must be her father. 

“You know,” Dean says, when the girl’s father has taken over ice pack duty, “You’re supposed to say over,” 

“What?” 

“On the radio,” Dean says, and Castiel isn’t necessarily an expert on these things, but he’s pretty sure it’s unnecessary for them to stand this close together. “When you’re done talking,” 

“You knew I’d finished talking,” 

“Did I?” Dean grins, “Guess this explains the hold up with the burgers.” 

“They’re slightly cold,” Castiel says, “As in, have been doused in icy water cold.” 

“Could be worse,” Dean says, “Could’ve got your junk. Guess you’ll be wanting to get changed before we go locate our replacements?” 

“I want a hot shower and my bed,” Castiel says, which makes Dean’s mouth tilt into the most wonderful smile, and draws Castiel in further. “And I don’t have anything else to wear,” 

“Hot water’s still out,” Dean says, brushing a thumb over Castiel’s arm, “Go get warm, I’ll sort food. Meet you back at the tent?” 

“Okay,” 

“Quit looking so damn miserable, man,” Dean says, “You’re breaking my heart.” 

“Can I have a hug?” 

“You’re kinda wet,” Dean says, nose wrinkling slightly. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, which gets Dean shaking his head but pulling him in for a hug anyway, which is nice because, as tactile as Dean is, hugs aren’t something he usually allows himself. Castiel needs it, anyway, because he’s cold, hungry and feeling fragile after everything that’s gone on today. He’s falling further down the rabbit hole, but right now it’s difficult to care. 

He only lets go because it starts to rain again. 

* 

He can't seem to get warm. The burgers didn’t help, nor did the hot chocolate that Dean bought for him, or the whiskey he drank from Dean’s flask. Now he’s wearing all of his dry layers inside his sleeping bag in the dark, but it’s too late. The numbness has taken his feet as well as his toes, and the iciness has gotten to his chest. 

Dean flicks on the torch light then turns towards him. 

"Cas," Dean says, corners of his lips pulled down in worry, "You doing okay?" 

"Yes," 

"Dude, we're sharing an air mattress. I can tell you're shivering." 

"I'm cold," 

You're..." Dean says, then he's turning into Cas' space and frowning at him, "From before?" 

"I haven't been able to get warm," Castiel admits, drawing his arms closer around him, still shivering. He gets Dean reaching into his sleeping bag for Castiel's hand in response, which feels hot and solid to the touch, before he gets a muffled swearword and a then Dean leaning more into his space. 

"You're really cold, man." 

"I know," 

"Okay, okay just... All right take off your hoodie," Dean says, sitting up and stripping odd his own t-shirt. Castiel is too cold to admire the view, and too busy fumbling to get the hoodie over his head. "And your shirt," 

"Dean," 

"Body heat," Dean says, pulling off his pants. Castiel follows the instructions because Dean's hands were warm and because he trust him, even if he winces when Dean unzips his sleeping bag and exposes him to the cool outside air. 

"Sorry, man," Dean says, then he's leaning over him for the pile of blankets Castiel always brings and throwing it over him again. Then Dean draws Castiel into his chest and wraps his arms around his back. Dean is blessedly warm and solid and Castiel can't find it within himself to be ashamed of shifting near and clutching onto him. 

"Better?" Dean asks, folding a hand over Castiel's fingers. 

"Yes," Castiel, “You are, as always, hot.” 

“Don’t go inflating my head, there,” Dean says, running a thumb over Castiel’s knuckles. 

“I doubt I would have that much effect,” Castiel returns, moving is other hand to the curve of Dean’s hip, because it’s warm and fits comfortably there. 

“You getting comfortable there, Cas?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Stop talking.” 

“Don’t think I will,” Dean says, letting go of his hand to pull the blankets closer around them. 

"You don't have to be so careful with me, Dean," Castiel complains, moving his still cold fingers from Dean's hips to his neck, just for the sake of the grimace he gets in response. Dean retaliates by pulling the hood of Castiel's sleeping bag, which is currently acting as a blanket, over Castiel's head and then pulling the drawstring. 

"Nice hat," Dean grins, and Castiel goes to remove them, so Dean tips them both sideways until Castiel is flat on his back on the air mattress with Dean tangled above him. 

It's the easiest movement in the world to begin kissing. They've already done so several times today, if in more public circumstances, so the soft curve of Dean's lips pressing into his own frown feels blissfully uncomplicated. Dean's still careful and slow as he curves a hand behind his neck which is frustrating given Castiel already told him his care was unnecessary. Castiel is not fragile. So, he pushes up into the kiss, tangles his fingers in Dean's hair and deepens it. Then there are tongues involved, which certainly hadn't been the case earlier, and then heat and want is unfurling in his gut, because this is Dean Winchester and he's always known that he wanted Dean Winchester, and here they are. 

Dean breaks lip contact to go for his neck, to drag his teeth over his collar bone, to kiss just above his nipples. A double airbed isn't exactly ideal for this kind of activity because every shift in weight sends the ground beneath them shuddering, but Castiel is entirely sure that he doesn't give a shit as the hot warmth of Dean's mouth meets the bud of his nipple. Castiel hisses and tries to scramble for some flesh, because he is at a severely disadvantaged position. He gets Dean back to his lips, messier this time, with an undercurrent of urgency and the growingly unsteady rise and fall of Dean's chest. Then Castiel's heart nearly stops, because one of Dean's thumbs has slipped beyond the elastic of his boxers. 

"Shit," Castiel mutters, trying to breathe. 

"Good shit, bad shit?" Dean asks, hands temporarily withdrawn but still achingly close. Castiel frowns, then he's skimming his hands downward just as not to be outdone. 

"Fuck," Dean says, arching into the touch. 

"Good fuck or bad fuck?" Castiel parrots back. Dean is satisfyingly eager and fucking beautiful, as he always has been. This, though, is brand new. 

"An as you were priest, fuck." 

"I don't wish to negatively impact your arousal," Castiel says, pushing Dean's boxers down his hips. His chest is defrosting. He feels _warm_ and safe and glorious. "But I feel compelled to inform you I am not actually a priest." Castiel wriggles free of his own boxers and then makes a point to press their lips together. 

"Dude, you're way too coherent right now," Dean says. Castiel's breathe catches. He vaguely wishes it were slightly lighter so he could see Dean better, but then Dean gets on with it and suddenly he's not thinking much at all. 

He doesn't really think about the enormity of what they've done until Dean's boneless and flushed on his chest. 

"Clean up," Dean says, leaning over him to grab a t-shirt which, clearly, is unacceptable given the circumstances. Castiel is immediately rolling them over and pinning Dean to the air mattress with his palms flat over his shoulders. 

"If you use my crew t-shirt to clean up your semen then I will personally unsure LARP death." 

"So now it's my semen, huh?" 

"You contributed" 

"Well I aint using my kit." 

"I wasn't asking you to." 

"Don't know any semen vanishing spells,” 

"Use your boxers," Castiel says, "Or even mine. Just do not use the t-shirt I have to wear tomorrow." 

"Kinda like you bossing me around," Dean says, reaching for the nearest pair of boxers to mop up the mess, then Dean chucks it beyond the scope of their light, then rolls more or less back on top of him. 

“I’m probably warm enough, now,” 

“Don’t wanna risk it,” Dean says, grinning as he kisses him again. “Hypothermia’s a bitch.” 

“Turn off the light,” 

“You’re one of those?” 

“I want to sleep now,” Castiel says, tucking himself back under Dean’s arm, because apparently that’s allowed, because Dean kissed him afterwards first, and because they’ve been acting like they’re a couple, even if Castiel knows otherwise. “That’s easier without light.” 

“Alright,” Dean says, fumbling for the light, then curling back around him. 

* 

Castiel wakes up due to a mixture of the warm lump he’s half lying on moving and Dean’s phone blaring AC/DC. He doesn’t understands Dean’s capacity to be awake immediately, because Castiel awakes feeling groggy and disorientated whilst Dean is more or less instantly sat up on the phone. 

“What’s the update…? Fuck,” Dean pauses, reaching for a shirt, “I didn’t wanna be right about this, Bobby. Yeah. No, I figured. Yeah, okay… just, it’ll take me a couple of hours to get there. Packing up the tent’s gonna be a bitch, been straight rain since we got here. Gotta drop Cas off home… yeah. I don’t think he’ll have a problem ‘bout leaving a few hours early…. Okay, Bobby, just. Look after him, okay?” 

“We’re leaving?” 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, attempting to massage a crease out of his forehead, frowning at his cell. “Sorry. Just, family emergency.” 

“Okay,” Castiel agrees, minutely offended that he’s being pushed out so recently after the previous night, but aware that that’s just how Dean operates. “I don’t have any dry IC clothing,” 

“Screw it,” Dean mutters, reaching for the rest of his clothes, “Wear whatever’s dry, Cas.” Dean says, shoving his belongings in a duffle. “If I go get coffee, can you be packed and ready to put down the tent by the time I get back?” 

“If it’s important forget the coffee,” Castiel says, getting up and trying to locate his own clothing. He hadn’t really considered the fact that he was naked until he feels Dean’s eyes on him, but he’s too stubborn to feel self-conscious about it. “I will survive,” 

“Yeah, but you’ll be plenty moody about it,” Dean says, “You sure? Turfing you out at the crack of dawn. Least I can do is get you some damn coffee.” 

“Is this the Dean Winchester equivalent of buying someone a drink first?” Castiel says, then instantly regrets it. He deliberately doesn’t look in his direction as he pulls on his underwear and his jeans on because he’s probably broken the unwritten rule that they weren’t going to talk about last night. He hasn’t had any caffeine yet, so he can’t really be held responsible for whatever’s coming out of his mouth. 

“I bought you hot chocolate,” Dean says, pulling the plug on the airbed. “And you had some of my whiskey. Quit complaining.” 

“ _Are_ you getting coffee?” 

“We can stop on the way,” Dean says, looking at him again, “Thanks, Cas.” 

* 

For once, Castiel doesn’t sleep during the journey home, but that doesn’t mean they talk any more than they had in previous two journeys. Dean is tense and lost in his head, Castiel feels vaguely like he’s going down on a rollercoaster, except he hasn’t reached the bottom yet. Everything has changed in the past two days, but it very much feels like nothing has changed. Their activities were acknowledged this morning, but not exactly discussed. He doesn’t know what’s going on and he still doesn’t know when Dean pulls up outside of his house, standing up to carry his bags to the door even though it’s unnecessary. 

"I gotta get back," Dean says. 

"Because of the family emergency," Castiel prompts, because Dean is just stood there staring at him. 

"Right," Dean says, "Otherwise I’d..." Dean nods towards the door, which Castiel is taking to mean that he’d hang around for a while. "Just, I might be kinda distant whilst I sort this. But if you could just... wait...” 

“Wait,” Castiel repeats. 

Dean balks, swallows. 

“I mean, wait for me to call you.” 

“That tends to be what I do anyway.” 

Dean sucks in a breath. 

“That's probably fair. Sam's staying at mine, or I'd say come over and we'll hang out right now. I promise.” 

“We’ll see,” Castiel says, more for his own sense of self-preservation than anything else, because he cannot believe Dean right now if he doesn’t mean it. Dean frowns but keeps looking at him, serious in a way that Dean rarely is. 

“Look, I needed this weekend. I needed you to be there this weekend,” Dean says and, clearly, he’s struggling to work out how to phrase everything. Castiel is more surprised that Dean is even _trying_ to speak to him, given them family emergency that almost definitely has something to do with Sam and Dean’s preoccupation with his phone. 

“I didn't do much.” 

“You do plenty. I needed you.” 

“You certainly had me,” Castiel says. 

“Cas,” Dean says, smiling slightly, “Look, I’ll call you.” 

He gets a hug goodbye, which is better than the two previous times they’ve done this, but is still not exactly what he wants. 

* 

Castiel is thinking about Dean describing their fictional relationship as filled with _almosts_ and _bad timing_ and he thinks of Dean asking for him to _wait_ and the tagged on ‘to call him’. 

And he decides to fuck that. He’s not doing it anymore. Castiel has been deliberately trying to distance himself from Dean for years in order to save himself further heartache and it’s only served Dean to question their friendship, get pissed off at him and for them both to second guess everything. He is not allowing this to be another victim of bad timing, nor is he going to allowed Dean to continue to push him out. Their friendship, whatever’s left with it, is worth more than that. 

He allows Dean two hours to get home, have a beer and unload the car before he calls him. 

“You left something in my car, or something?” Dean asks when he answers. 

“What’s wrong with Sam?” Castiel asks, heart beating very fast. It shouldn’t be. All he is doing is asking his best friend what is going on in his life, but their relationship became tangled and complicated a long time ago. 

“Uh,” Dean says, then a door shuts behind him, presumably in order to block the sounds of their conversation, “Drugs relapse. Trying to get him back into rehab. It’s bad, Cas, I dunno what I’m doing. Dunno what I _did_ wrong.” 

It’s turns out to be the most honest conversation they’ve had in a significant length of time, even if neither of them broach the subject of the past few days.


	4. Winter Equinox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a little spoon?”
> 
> “I’m a homosapien, not an article of cutlery.”

Castiel gets an actual hug when Dean picks him up for the last event, only three weeks after the previous event. They have been talking throughout the interval, which is almost revolutionary, even if Castiel is losing patience with the number of subjects they haven’t broached. Whilst he fully understands that Dean is distracted with the situation with Sam, he does feel that Dean owes him _more_ than what he is currently getting. He’s frustrated, even if Dean offers him up an actual smile then gestures that he can choose the radio station again which makes it unduly difficult to hold anything against him.

“How’s Sam?” Castiel asks as he readjusts the radio in Bobby’s pick up. Dean’s expression flickers slightly, but the smile remains.

“Angry,” Dean says, “Hates me for making him go cold turkey.”

Largely, he’s surprised that Dean’s even here; he’d been expecting Dean to cancel ever since he got the information about what was going on with his brother. That’s what happened the last time, where at least Castiel had still been living with him and had been better positioned to be useful (obviously, Castiel had cancelled too). 

He shouldn’t be expecting anything from Dean right now.

Castiel settles on a radio station that’s playing something that reminds him a little of Metallica (and could well _be_ Metallica as far as Castiel knows) as a peace offering. Dean looks at him in a way that makes everything ache, because it feels like it means a lot more than it probably does. After the previous event, Castiel might even be justified in thinking too much into it.

“Weather’s supposed to be pretty normal,”

“Really?”

“Really,” Dean says, tapping his finger against the steering wheel in a way that indicates he must know the song.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Castiel mutters, then settles in for the rest of the drive.

*

He hasn’t seen Charlie since the last event, which is usually what happens, but given she spent the majority of the last event hiding from his wrath and they haven’t communicated since, it’s not surprising that the first thing she does is drag him to one side and start trying to placate him. He’s not sure he’s exactly angry anymore (although that probably depends on what happens _now_ ), but he’s not above letting Charlie grovel.

"Are you still mad at me?" Charlie pouts, when Castiel turns his stare on her. With Charlie, he's long since discovered that the most effective way of expressing his discomfort is just to look at her with intent. Generally, she ends up talking very quickly, apologising (if an apology is due), then asking 'if we can please be besties again' so quickly that he can barely decipher individual words, but that’s usually enough for him to feel satisfied and to agree to be ‘besties’. "Because, really, I'm doing you a huge favour. So in actual fact you should probs be thanking me instead of sending me your intense angry stare."

"Why, exactly, should I be thanking you?"

"Because it worked,” Charlie says, punching his arm in a way that Castiel has been lead to believe is supposed to express friendly comradery. 

"Did it?"

"Dude, you consummated, either it worked or you took that cemented with sexual union thing _way_ too seriously." Charlie says, and at least she’s quiet about it. Dean’s putting up the bell tent alone, which Castiel would feel guilty about if he wasn’t so convinced that Dean got a great deal of pleasure out of complaining about putting the tent up alone.

"Did Dean tell you this?"

"Not exactly...."

"Charlie," Castiel warns, turning his ‘intense angry stare’ back at her.

"Okay, okay, Dorothy heard you." Charlie says, which… well, is both embarrassing and makes for an awkward social situation that Castiel is probably unequipped to handle. It also means that Dean _did not_ tell Charlie, which is likely a bad sign and unusual. Charlie knew about a stupid drunken kiss from years ago, but not about this. He doesn’t know what that means, if anything. "It's kinda of what happens if you do the do in a tent in a campsite with your friends," Charlie says, "And she was pissed, too. Said it was _my_ fault. Wouldn't sleep with me for a week."

"You're back together?" Castiel asks, which at least explains how Dorothy was persuaded to participate in Charlie’s big plan.

"Uh, kinda," Charlie shrugs, "But enough about me," She continues, punching him on the arm for a second time. "You and Dean! Super offended you didn't tell me given I'm your fairy godmother -"

"There is no me and Dean," Castiel frowns at him.

"But you broke through the years of repressed UST with a passionate and beautiful sexual union."

"We exchanged hand jobs because I was cold." 

This time, Charlie elbows him, with a little more force behind it than the arm-punch. Castiel’s not altogether sure _what_ being elbowed is supposed to mean, but given that Charlie is frowning at him he’s taking a guess that it isn’t a good thing.

"You're ruining the magic," Charlie says, "You _want_ to be together,"

"Do we?"

"Don't you?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," Castiel says, "Because I have no idea what Dean wants and I have no reason to suppose that he wants anything."

“He’s such a butthead,” Charlie says, turning to glare at Dean where he’s struggling with the tent, “I set it all up for him! And even then he can’t do it right.”

“Charlie,” Cas says, but by that point she’s already striding over to talk to Dean about something which Castiel sincerely hopes is not the conversation they’ve just had, because he has a distinct feeling that _more_ interference is not what they need in the slightest. Dean’s ears neither turn pink, nor does he glance in Castiel’s direction, nor does he look remotely uncomfortable, so Castiel assumes her operation is still covert.

Next time he checks his phone, he has a text message from Charlie saying ‘ _Never fear, padwan!! I think its best all round if young Dean stays ignorant about scheming until operation Cas-doesn’t-quit-larping-is-a-go.’_

Overall, he thinks her efforts are somewhat misguided. He’d have probably continued LARPing for years if Dean had only asked him to.

*

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, glancing up from where he’s making potions (exchanging laminated ingredient cards for laminated potions stars) at the ‘apothecary’ section of the crew tent. He’d needed a little space from Dean and, besides he’d wanted to sell the stocks he’d rather rashly bought in the previous event both because he was sure _someone_ was going to want to know what he did with all his LARP currency and because he was sure that, with the validity of their (fake) marriage now common knowledge, the stocks would probably have levelled out and be unlikely to increase further. He made a significant amount of wealth, anyway.

Also, Dean was dead set on joining the battle and Castiel still didn’t really understand how they worked, or at what point he’s supposed to keel over and pretend to die, so found it generally better to avoid them. The fact that Dean’s now here explains why the crew tent is so busy, though, as it means the post-battle traffic is beginning to filter through the tent.

Dean is muddy and looks disgruntled. 

“I died,” Dean grumbles, looking petulant. There’s a streak of fake blood smudged over his left eyebrow. It’s surprising news because Dean’s lead him to believe that he’s very accomplished in LARP combat and, given he’d never died before, Castiel had taken his word for it.

“You died?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, hands shoved in his pockets, “Got ambushed by a frigging Shadow Orc.”

“Did Charlie not have the potions to save you?” Castiel asks, trying to act like he doesn’t find Dean’s reaction to his LARP-death incredibly endearing and slightly funny, because he doesn’t want Dean to be remotely ashamed by how passionate he is about LARPing.

“That was the kick in the teeth. She did, but they had me surrounded so…”

“So,”

“So I’m dead. Been the same characters for _years_ and now I’m a damn corpse.”

“Our marriage was quite short lived, then,”

“Right,” Dean says, leaning against the side of the table. “Poor Emmanuel. Spent his whole damn life a virgin, finally got his rocks off and now his husband’s dead. Bummer.”

“He knew this was a possible outcome of marrying a warrior,” Cas says, smirking at him. Dean’s still too caught up in angstily staring at his shoes to have noticed the smile creeping at the corner of Castiel’s lips, which is probably a good thing all things considered. “Would you like to generate a new character?”

“Maybe next event,” Dean says, “Figured I could just…hang out with you,”

“You want to crew?”

“More, uh, follow you around while you do the work?” Dean suggests, finally meeting his eye. Dean has a number of _looks_ which Castiel has memorised, deconstructed and dissected, but he’s never been entirely sure he’s correct about what this particular look means. Mostly, he gets as far as thinking about how green Dean’s eyes are, then Dean always seems to have an urge to look away. “Never seen you in action.”

“Well, you’ll have to stop holding up the queue,” Castiel says, nodding to where a number of people are waiting for assistance behind him. They’re probably all after lost property, which hasn’t been delivered from after the battle yet, but he still shouldn’t be ignoring them. Even if, for the first time in a very long time, Dean Winchester has just expressed a desire to make time to hang out with him, despite it involving _not_ LARPing for the rest of the weekend. He has a nervous, fluttery feeling in his stomach which is a strange mix between pleasant and awful and now he _has_ Dean wanting to spend time with him, Castiel isn’t entirely sure what to say. They’ve never had this problem before.

“Can I come backstage?” Dean asks, and he looks about as excited as he usually does about inane things that happen during events, which is unfairly charming and difficult to resist. Castiel swallows back some of his sudden nervousness to focus on the actual conversation.

“You mean, can you climb under the table? Yes, Dean, you can.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, as Castiel turns towards the man behind Dean, who’s missing six of his arrows, which may or may not ever turn up again. Anyone who has a tendency to become overly attached to their LARP weaponry should probably not take up LARP archery, as far as Castiel is concerned, because they are perpetually going missing.

*

Dean waits until the queue’s died down before striking up conversation again, which is helpful. Mostly, he’s spent the last half an hour hovering just outside the boundary of acceptable personal space (Castiel edition which, according to Dean, is utterly inaccurate) and _watching him_. Occasionally, Cas pointed him in the direction of various resources or potions and told him to get them for him, but it’s easier to just do it himself than explain.

He’s still nervous, even though it’s illogical and likely unnecessary. Reasoning with himself isn’t having the desire effect, though, and Castiel keeps getting caught up in long glances and too long pauses. It’s _Dean_ , though. 

“So, you gotta get time off to go to my funeral later.”

“We have strange lives,” Cas says, “Are you going?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “How many times does a guy get to go to his own funeral? Come on, it’ll be sweet.”

“I’ll try and act appropriately maudlin,”

“What are you going to sacrifice?” Dean asks, leaning on the edge of the table and grinning at him. He likes Dean’s smiles and he’s not sure he was expecting to be treated to so many _this_ weekend, when he knows the situation with Sam is very far from ideal, but Dean is absolutely smiling at him, and Castiel is acting too-awkward and off-kilter.

“What’s the most valuable thing I own?” Castiel asks, “I sold a significant number of shares, so I think I’m quite rich.”

“Hey now,” Dean says, “Don’t go screwing over the whole coven when we're already pretty fucked. We were only hitched for like, two seasons. Just ditch another potion and shed a couple of crocodile tears.”

“Dean,” Cas says, letting himself be pulled into the conversation properly, now, given the crew tent is more or less empty, and it’s easier now Dean’s pulling him into the familiar rhythm of their conversations. “Emmanuel changed his whole life for Hunter. A _potion_ is not an adequate expression of grief. I would like to sacrifice the most valuable thing I own.”

“Dude, _less_ than two seasons. Probably only managed to fit in like two roles in the hay.”

“Precisely, Dean. Emmanuel wouldn’t have compromised their friendship by sleeping with Hunter unless he was in love with him,” Castiel says, then realises the full implications of the words that just came out of his mouth and regrets it immensely. Dean’s eyes’ widen. Castiel feels like his stomach has turned to lead and is changing the power of gravity. The silence goes on for too long before Castiel realises he could be and should be attempting a cover up, at which point it’s probably too late. He attempts it anyway, because the quietude is painful. Dean has virtually not reacted at all. “Because he made a vow of celibacy,” Castiel adds, which is a poor effort, but at least cuts through the empty space in conversation. 

“Cas,” Dean says, which is worse than the previous none-reaction.

“Vows are very important,”

“Cas, hey,” Dean says, taking a step forward, in his ridiculous armour, with his foam sword sticking out of belt. Dean’s spent the past three weeks supervising his brother’s drug-withdrawal, whilst simultaneously blaming himself and taking on the entire responsibility for Sam’s recovery upon himself, and he’s currently dressed up as a mythical solider and is excited about attending his own fake funeral. Dean is a miracle. He is a beautiful, wonderful miracle, and since the previous event Castiel has not been able to filter his thoughts to stop dwelling on how in love with him he is. Usually, it’s just a distant fact of their relationship. Castiel is in love with his best friend and it’s fine. It doesn’t _matter_. It barely bothered him anymore, but now the floodgates are open. Now he’s acknowledged it in actual conversation, if indirectly. Castiel looks away. “Cas,”

“What?”

“Just…” Dean trails off, then he’s _looking_ at him again, then Castiel has Dean’s hand on his hip over his ridiculous robe and Castiel’s following the movement towards Dean till their chest to chest. “Hey,”

“Hello Dean,” 

Dean kisses him. It’s wonderful, even if Castiel still doesn’t have any idea what it means, but he’s confident that it does mean something, , so he lets himself be pulled into it. Its too good not to. Even the second thoughts he had at the last event aren’t currently plaguing him, because there’s no real _reason_ for Dean to be kissing him other than he wants to. That’s everything.

They break apart because someone is squealing behind them. They haven’t kissed for nearly long enough, as far as Castiel’s concerned, but with the personal space comes all his previous doubts.

The person squealing turns out to be Becky.

“Oh my god!”

“Hello, Becky,”

“It worked!” Becky says, her voice alarmingly high-pitched. “It _worked_.”

“It did not work,” Castiel assures her, glancing furtively at Dean, then staring at Becky. He’s attempting to silence her with his eyes, but he’s not altogether certain about his abilities. He is certain of the ability of this to royally fuck things up, though, because he doubts this conversation is going to end well.

“Operation fake relationship is a success!”

“Is this some kind of set up?” Dean asks, glancing between the pair of them.

“Yes,” Castiel says, because it’s easier than attempting to cover-up at this point. Becky has already ruined any pretence of pretending any of this happened organically or under normal circumstances. “Charlie fabricated it,” 

“Charlie?”

“And Becky and Chuck.”

“You knew about this?” Dean asks, turning another green stare at him and taking a step backwards. The step backwards is probably because they’re both still standing very close together, but it could also be because Dean has assumed Castiel has been privy to the scheming to the point where he actually participated in them, rather than just being aware of their existence. He doesn’t know how Dean is going to feel about that and it makes him nervous. 

“Yes,” 

“Uh,” Dean says, glancing at Becky, then back to Castiel again, “Okay.” 

“We don’t have time for this right now, Becky,” Castiel says, mostly because he has completely lost control of the conversation, and now too much time has passed since they were kissing for Castiel to naturally bring it up in conversation. They need to _talk_ or at least have an opportunity to make-out, not discuss convoluted LARP matchmaking schemes with interfering fangirls and begrudging LARP writers. “We have to go to Dean’s funeral.” 

“You _died_?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “So we have to go,” 

Castiel drags Dean out of crew tent by his belt, then into the previous event lost property overflow storage because it’s small enough to be relatively private. It’s one of the structures that’s up all year round rather than a tent, but there’s enough room for the two of them without any chance of Becky following them in. 

“Where the hell is this?” 

“Storage,” Castiel says, “Dean, are you irritated about being set up?” 

“I’m a little confused? Dunno if I can go far as irritated with this much of the story.” 

“I told Charlie I wanted to quit LARP and she took drastic measures,” Castiel says, staring at him. Dean cocks an eyebrow at that, then almost smiles. “I tried to stop them.” 

“I figured,” Dean says, “Kind of overkill, don’t you think?” 

“Undoubtedly,” Castiel says. 

“You still wanna quit?” 

“No,” Castiel says, and he hadn’t realised that was the answer until the word slips out of his mouth. He’s enjoyed the past few weekend events immensely. Given that Dean’s death and the subsequent dissolving of their magical-power up marriage being dissolved is sure to have sent their shares dropping in worth significantly, Castiel might just have won the stock market game in and of itself. He enjoyed his brief forays into the battlefield and the IC world. He understands something that’s going on in the plot and Dean Winchester volunteered to spend time with him in the crew tent rather than disappearing to pretend to be a magical wizard far away from Castiel. He does want to continue LARPing. He’d rather continuing LARPing the character of Hunter’s husband than his widower, but death is inconvenient like that. 

“Hats off to Charlie then,” Dean says, then glances round the storage facility again. “The funeral isn’t for like half an hour, Cas.” 

“Hmm,” Castiel says, then pushes him against a shelf of abandoned daggers and kisses him properly. He hadn’t had a chance to before, so he doesn’t waste time with the preamble. They’d more or less covered that base with their last kiss. Dean stumbles in the processes, but goes willingly. Then Castiel has one hand cupped under his jaw and one in his hair and Dean’s still scrabbling for grip on the shelf behind him. 

“ _Hol_ y shit, Cas, you’re such a badass,” Dean says, “Like hell you’re not a warrior.” 

“This is not LARP Dean, this is reality.” Castiel says, because that’s _important_ and something he really needs Dean to be aware of. If Dean isn’t on the same page, Castiel needs to abandon this whole situation with immediate effect. 

“Yeah, and you’re fucking hot in all realities, Cas.” 

“Oh,” Castiel says, his stomach flipping over. Dean both thinks he’s attractive and is aware which reality they’re currently making out is. As in, this current, actual reality. Dean seems unperturbed by that. “Thank you.” 

Dean grins at him then leans forward to kiss him again. 

They’re late to Dean’s funeral. 

* 

“We lost a good man today,” Charlie says, eyes fixed on the pair of them as they take their place in the circle around the fire. Castiel is attempting to pretend his tardiness was on account of being profoundly incapacitated by grief, but he’s entirely sure from the way Dean’s smirking at him that his attempt is not working. “Some of us knew Hunter of Yesteryer better than others, but all knew of him. A fierce warrior, an advisor, an ex-handmaiden, a confidant, a husband. The sacrifices we now make could not symbolise the depth of loss we feel, but are mere tokens of grief. As a mark of my mourning, I surrender my shield, my protection, to the fire.” Charlie continues, then adds her shield to the pile of discarded items (definitely _not_ actually in the fire, not least because Castiel is sure the fumes from burning LARP kit would probably be an awful stench of burning plastic). 

“I, my herb garden.” 

“Two pieces of gold,” 

“My spell book,” Kevin says, solemnly. 

“My enchanted dagger,” Gadreel says, leading to a few seconds pause in which Dean nudges him. 

“My weaponry,” Castiel says. “All of it. And my potions.” 

“Emmanuel,” Charlie say, “Would you like to deliver a eulogy?” 

“I can’t,” Castiel says, mostly because he’s entirely sure he’d screw it up and have everyone start laughing and, bizarrely, he feels Hunter has earned a solemn funeral. “May he always be remembered,” Castiel says, with the others beginning after he has begun to spoke. 

“Now,” Charlie says, after the assigned minute of silence, “I hate to diminish our grief by bringing up such matters… but, our loss is totally compounded by our loss of power. We’re totally freaking screwed if we can’t generate some magic,”

“Can you buy it?” Castiel asks, as Dean nudges him again. Apparently, the sales of his stocks come to a significant amount of LARP wealth, at least according to Dean, who’s demanding that Castiel be made the coven accountant at some point in the near future (“you’d be a holy tax accountant, dude, it’d be _awesome_ ”). Charlie raises an eyebrow at him, so he empties out his numerous coins from his leather poach (Dean purchased it for him) and onto the grass. “Do what you will in memory of my late husband.”

“Holy hell, Emmanuel!” 

“I don’t think now is an appropriate time to talk so flippantly of hell, Celeste.” Castiel says, which has Dean guffawing behind him. Castiel makes a personal note to ask whether he enjoyed attending his own funeral at a later point, perhaps when they’re back in the tent.

Of course, the funeral turns smoothly into drinking, which turns into Castiel swotting away Dean’s attempts to put his arm around him, because they are supposed to be _in character_ and Emmanuel would certainly not allow a currently unknown entity so much as touch him so soon after his husband’s funeral, which gets him a number of lewd comments about alternative ways to grieve and Charlie watching them far too carefully for Castiel’s liking. She seems to be enjoying herself with conspiracy theories, though, so Castiel is prepared to let her continue to have her fun without turning his ‘intense angry stare’ at her. It is difficult to care when his stomach is lined with homebrewed something or other, he has the memory of Dean enthusiastically kissing him a few hours previously and the weather is fairly unobtrusive. Dean doesn’t care that Charlie and Becky have been plotting (not that he currently realises the full extent of it). The fire is warm, their post-funeral meal was delicious and Dean is nearby and laughing at a jokes Castiel doesn’t understands. 

Then, Dean leans close enough to his ear that Castiel can feel the heat of his breath, dropping his voice low to say, “Bed time?” 

Castiel’s heart near enough stops, because… because everything seems very real. The slight up quirk of Dean’s eyebrow as he leans away again feels very very real. The way Dean’s looking at him as though they share some deep, meaningful secret feels very real. It might happen. _They_ might be happening. It might be real. The reign of almosts, bad timing and missed opportunities might be over. 

“I’m tired,” Castiel says out loud, his voice a lot more level than his pulse. Charlie sends him a look like he can read right through him, but none of the others appear to be reading into it. 

“All right,” Dean says, clapping Cas on the shoulder and standing up, for all the world that he wasn’t the one to suggest it. “Guess we’re turning in.” “We’ll try and keep it down,” Dorothy says, narrowing her eyes in their direction, “I can only hope others will extend the courtesy.” Castiel is sure that if Dean knew that was a barb in their direction he’d be blushing, not that Castiel would be able to see through the dark. “Goodnight.” 

Dean doesn’t kiss him again until they’ve both taken a trip to portaloos, brushed their teeth and changed out of their LARP kit, at the point where Castiel almost thought he wasn’t going to. He does, though, when Castiel is sat on the double airbed and putting on his third pair of socks. Dean flops down next to him, making the air bed bounce slightly. 

“That’s real sexy, Cas,” Dean says, grinning at him, “Nothing does it for me like three pairs of socks.” 

“It’s cold, Dean.” 

“I could warm you up,” Dean grins, then he _finally_ leans forward to kiss him. 

“If you’re insinuating we have sex, I am not sleeping with you in this tent,” Castiel says, leaning away from him to get his sleeping bag, even if he would rather not. 

“You kinda already did,” 

“Dorothy _heard_ us,” Castiel says. 

“Awkward,” Dean says, still smiling at him, “Either way, I ain’t letting you in that sleeping bag alone.” 

“I doubt you’d fit in with me,” Castiel counters, but he unzips it and reaches for the blankets anyway. If Dean is coming anywhere close to suggesting they _cuddle_ then Castiel certainly isn’t intending to turn such an offer down, even if they haven’t actually spoken about any of this yet. “I’m glad you’re here, Dean.” 

“Well thanks, Cas,” Dean says, voice forcefully light, because of course Dean is completely allergic to emotions and acknowledging the fact that Castiel is taking this whole thing very seriously. His gut hurts. He wants Dean to _want_ this for the same reasons that Castiel wants it, but Dean is _unfathomable_. In a boyishly good mood, but unfathomable nonetheless. “How’s work been?” 

Castiel throws the sleeping bag and blankets over their legs, then shifts to rearrange his pillows. 

“I am tired,” Castiel says, because if they’re just going to engage in pointless small talk, he’d rather not talk at all. He wants to have a conversation about _this_ , but he doesn’t think Dean will let him.

“Dunno why you even do a job that exhausts you that much,”

“ _Stop_ questioning my career choices, Dean. They are my choices and they are not up for public debate.”

“Fine,” Dean says, reaching forward to turn off the torch, plunging them both into darkness. He does tuck himself under the blankets though, so he isn’t mad enough to withdraw his presence, at least.

“Dean,”

“I said _fine_.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, “Are you going to warm me up or not?” 

“Affirmative,” Dean says, rolling over to his side of the airbed and _looking_ at him, “Sorry I’m such an ass.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says, letting Dean kiss him again, then he has Dean’s arms sneaking around him. Dean has nice arms. Castiel has always known that, but he’s never experienced them in this context, and it’s lovely. He is going to regret this immensely if Dean isn’t serious about this, because their friendship will not recover. He’s sure of it. There’s little to be done now, though, so he turns in the space of Dean’s arm and settles against him. 

“You’re the little spoon?” 

“I’m a homosapien, not an article of cutlery.” 

“And you’re such a top, too,” Dean says, and Castiel can _tell_ that he’s smiling, even if he’s facing in the wrong direction. Dean tightens his hold slightly. 

“I’m indifferent,” 

“You can switch it up occasionally and still have a preference,” Dean says, “And you’re pushy, dude.” 

“Do you have a point?” 

“It’s awesome,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. The gesture sparks off another three lines of overthinking, but Castiel is comfortable enough that he’ll probably sleep very well regardless. “You’re awesome with all your frigging contradictions and quirks. I just… I like it.” 

“None of those things contradiction each other,” Castiel says, then yawns. He is tired. He’s slightly intoxicated from the homebrew and from Dean, and he wants to stay awake for this conversation, provided the conversation heads into the realms that it definitely needs to head into. He needs some _verbal_ confirmation from Dean that this is what Castiel thinks it is. He needs something _more_ than Dean thinking that he’s awesome. He needs _more._

“Goodnight, Cas,” 

“Yes,” Cas agrees, because it most definitely has been. 

* 

“Pull over,” Castiel says, when they’re halfway home and he’s beginning to realise that Dean isn’t going to broach this conversation because it’s simply not in his MO to do so, and he can’t handle that. The rest of the event had been a weekend of glorious denial, spooning and gratuitously touching whenever they were alone, but the event is over. Dean is going to drop Castiel off at his home then return to his apartment and the mess with Sam. If they’re not going to see each other until the next event, Castiel would rather find that out now than when Dean stops answering his text messages. 

He needs answers. He needs _something_. Really, he needs Dean, but he’s not altogether sure whether he gets Dean or not. That’s what he desperately needs clarification about. 

“Okay,” Dean says, glancing at him before pulling over to the side of the road. Castiel’s heart is beating very fast, but there’s nothing to be done about that and, given Dean’s expression, he’s sure Dean knows what’s coming too; or, at least, he knows that Castiel is about to steer them into talk territory. Dean turns the engine off and looks at him. “I’m fucking this up,” Dean says, before Castiel has a chance to say anything at all. “But you make it so damn hard, Cas.” 

That, Castiel wasn’t expecting. 

“Dean, all you need to do is tell me what you mean by _this_ or _it_ ,” Dean stares at the steering wheel, jaw clenching. “I meant what I inadvertently said earlier. I am in love with you. I moved out in part because of the commute and in part because it was too difficult to continue pretending otherwise. I don’t like pretending, which is probably why I’ve always been an abysmal LARPer.” 

Dean swallows. 

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head, Dean. Other than the fact that you find me attractive, everything else is merely conjecture. I know what I would _like to think_ is happening here, but I need you to use your words.” 

“Lisa,” Dean says, turning to look at him. Castiel frowns, because he has no idea what the relevance of Lisa is to anything, and he doesn’t particularly want to talk about Lisa, but it’s at least an improvement on silence. “So, uh, the reason I stood you up for the frigging bowling is cause she didn’t want me to go. We were arguing and she pretty much said that we were done if I went.” 

“Lisa didn’t like me?” 

“Well, no actually,” Dean says, “But that’s a side point… so, I didn’t go, like you won’t let me fucking forget. And then she didn’t want me to LARP because, well, she’s wasn’t all that comfortable me spending the whole weekend with you. Sharing a tent and whatever. So then I come back and say we’re getting LARP married and that was that. Totally fucking over.” 

“Lisa broke up with you because of a LARP marriage?” Castiel asks, tilting his head at him in confusion. Dean isn’t making a great deal of sense, but at least he’s _talking_. He’d almost expected to be kicked out on the side of the road for daring to articulate that something has changed. But, no, Dean is talking. 

“No, dude, pretty sure no one’s ever broken up with anyone over a LARP marriage,” 

“I don’t understand,” 

“I knew she was gonna do it the second I agreed but, I wanted to hang out with you and, anyway, she was kind of right about all of it.” 

“Right?” 

“Dude, she wasn’t just being vindictive. Lisa’s cool. She just figured me out. From the off, actually, but then we hadn’t seen each other for ages and she finally felt like she could push the issue, I guess. Said if I was serious about her than I had to look her in the eye and say that I wasn’t, uh, totally in love with you. So that tanked. And then I thought you were with this Daphne chick that I’ve never even met and you didn’t even _tell me_ about, but you prompted the whole fake frigging courtship and the fake PDA and I just, last event was so good, Cas. I had everything with Sam buzzing round in the back of my brain and I just bought it all home how much I rely on you. Only reason I went is cause I needed to see you and I got thinking how all of the bullshit we’ve been butting heads over, and you just, you’re just the best, Cas, and…yeah. I’m an asshole, but you call me out on it and you’re a grumpy shit most of the time but… I thought we might finally a chance, I dunno.” 

“I don’t see how going through all of that was any less arduous than simply saying _I love you too_ ,” Castiel says. 

“Hey, I’m pouring my fucking heart out over here. Quit the criticism.” 

“I apologise,” Cas says, the corner of his lips tilting upwards, something warm and safe and wonderful filling his chest and spreading outwards. Dean _loves_ him. Lisa disliked him for the exact reason that Daphne disliked Dean (and Castiel’s LARPing), and they were both right. 

“I’m crap at this,” Dean says, fingers still clenched on the wheel. “Way better at LARP than real life.” 

“Dean, look at me,” Castiel says, “This is a very good thing.” 

“I am fucking terrified,” 

“Just kiss me, Dean,” Castiel says, reaching forward to peel Dean’s grip from the steering wheel so that he can squeeze his hand, which at least gets Dean actually _looking_ at him again. He’s sending him the look which Castiel’s never been able to understand, but his gaze is green and honest and packed full of so many emotions that it would be difficult to know where to start. They’re not the right ones. Dean is supposed to be childlike with glee, telling bad jokes and grinning at him like he finds himself hilarious, turning on the charm and delivering corny lines. He’s not supposed to be tearing himself up about this, although it’s not particularly surprising. Dean is supposed to be as happy as he is at LARP events, always, particularly about _this_. Its enough to have Castiel feeling almost guilty for getting him to talk in the first place, but… it had to be done. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, hand dropping from the wheel to turn to him, swallowing. “You’re too good to me, Cas. I’ve been screwing everything up for _years_.” 

“I’m sure we’re both culpable,” Castiel says, “And you said you’d kiss me.” 

“Fuck, you’re needy,” Dean says, almost smiling as he leans forward to kiss him. Cas holds him hostage until the tension’s leaked from his shoulders and Dean looks significantly less stressed, then releases his grip on the front of Dean’s t-shirt. 

“You may continuing driving now,” Castiel says, pulling back to his side of the car. 

“May I?” Dean asks, slapping Castiel’s hand away when he goes to change the radio station. “Don’t think you’re getting special privileges just cause we’re a thing now. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. Them’s the rules, Sunshine. You don’t like it, you find someone else to drive your ass around." 

“We’ll see,” Castiel says, leaning back on his seat. Dean catches his eye and sends him a slightly-nervous grin. 

* 

“Do you want to come in?” Castiel asks, leaning against the door as Dean hovers in his personal space, one of his proper smiles breaking out across his face. Dean is beautiful and wonderful and reaching forward to kiss him. Finally back to his familiar state of goofing around and perpetual unseriousness that Castiel is probably addicted to, if the way he’s fingers are itching to reach forward and pull him in by the belt hooks of his jeans is anything to go by. 

“Come in what?” Dean grins. 

“You’re incorrigible.” 

“You love it,” 

“I love you,” Castiel says, and it’s nice to be able to say that, and it’s nicer still when Dean takes another step into his personal space and rests his hands on his hips under the material of his t-shirt. It’s real. It’s all of it a hundred percent real. 

“I, uh,” 

“I think the words you’re looking for are _I know_.” 

“Fucking hell,” Dean says, “Cas. Yes, I would like to come inside your stupid semi-detached house that you should never have bought because I shouldn’t have let you move out in the goddamn first place. I would _like_ to hang around here until you’re sick of looking at me and long enough that you can explain what the hell Charlie’s been doing behind my back, so I can send her a goddamn fruit basket.” 

“Please don’t encourage her,” 

“And I would _like_ to order some take out and fool around in a bed that isn’t liable to deflate and, I dunno, not stand you up for bowling and you actually _get_ that I’m trying to ask you out when I suggest dinner –” 

“– we always go out for dinner, Dean, that’s hardly my fault.” 

“And maybe ring Lisa her up and thank her,” Dean continues, and they’re both near enough plastered against the front door now, and they must look ridiculous, but Castiel is too enthralled by every single word that’s coming out of his mouth to really care, nor spare the concentration to actually open the door. 

“And just… like you said, quit pretending.” 

“I thought you liked LARPing?” 

“Will you quit being a smart ass and let me through the front door before I permanently scar all your neighbours?” Dean asks, which is possibly the easiest question that Castiel’s ever had had to answer. 

* 

Castiel wakes up, blessedly in his own bed, to hear Dean talking in frantic tones down the phone. It takes him a minute period of time to remember why would that be, before he registers that he’s still encased in the warmth of Dean’s left arm and that he is extremely comfortable because of it. 

“I’m sorry, Sammy, I just _forgot_ to call, okay?” Dean says, voice just above a whisper. In the relative quiet, Sam’s response is loud enough that Castiel can hear both sides of the conversation. He’s too sleepy to make it known that he can hear, even if he doesn’t particularly want to eavesdrop. 

“I thought you were dead in a ditch or something, Dean. You just _didn’t_ come home.” 

“I know, damnit. I just… I’m at Cas’ place, okay? I’m fine.” 

“So, what, you got tired on the drive back and decided to crash at Cas’?” 

“Something like that,” Dean says, which wakes Castiel up a little more, because… because that’s a very loose definition of the phrase ‘something like that’. If Dean isn’t prepared to discuss their relationship with Sam…Well, he has no intention of pushing the issue, but it’s difficult to believe Dean meant anything of what he said on the drive home if he won’t discuss it with Sam. 

“I thought you and Cas were at loggerheads, anyway.” 

“Is this important right now?” Dean hisses, tightening his grip around Castiel, “Sorry I didn’t call. I’ve worked it out with Cas. Everything’s fine.” 

“Why are you whispering?” 

“To add a little drama, Sam, what do you think?” Dean asks. “I’m with Cas.” 

“ _With_ him, with him?” 

“Yes, Sam, now can we talk about this tomorrow?” Dean snaps. Cas’ throat tightens with relief and he lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. It probably would have given away the fact that he was conscious if Dean wasn’t so concentrated on Sam’s reply. 

“Wow,” 

“Wow?” 

“Come on, Dean, this is huge,” Sam says, down the other end of the phone. “You’ve been circling each other for years.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean says. Castiel opens his eyes to take in his frown because, obviously, this isn’t something Dean is particularly comfortable talking about. Talking isn’t Dean’s forte in general, but particularly about relationships and feelings. “That happened.” 

“How?” 

“We got LARP married. You know what, Sam, it’s a long story. It’s late. I’ve gotta drive back at the ass crack of dawn to chance before work. Can we pick this up another time?” 

“Sure,” Sam says, “I’m glad you’ve got a life again, Dean.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Sam,” Castiel pipes up, “We did get together at a LARP event.” 

“Watch your mouth, Cas,” Dean says, “And that’s a wrap, folks. I ain’t having you both getting at me at once. Bye, Sammy.” 

“It is a long drive for you into tomorrow,” Castiel observes, shifting to make himself more comfortable across Dean’s chest. “I think it would be easier if I stayed at yours tomorrow night instead.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “But that ain’t gonna work long term, Cas. It’s a long commute and you actually frigging bought this house. I can’t commute from _here_ every day.” 

“So?” 

“I find a new job, I guess,” Dean says, leaning over to put his phone on charge, then slides back down the bed. Castiel’s stomach turns over again, because Dean is _find a new job_ serious about this. “But that’s definitely tomorrow’s problem. I’m beat, man. I frigging died this weekend. You know how traumatic that is?” 

“I was _widowed_ , Dean. That’s infinitely more traumatising given I am still alive.” 

“I’ll comfort you,” Dean grins, “Night, ‘Manny.” 

“I am formally banning role playing from the bedroom,” 

Dean actually laughs at that, the same way that he laughs at LARP events, dressed in obsessively accurate armour and pretending to be someone with different problems and a different background. Castiel hasn’t seen him this _free_ outside the LARP field since before his father died. It’s as addictive and enigmatic as it was the first time Castiel saw him LARPing, only now he has _just Dean_ in an old black t-shirt emblazoned with a band Castiel’s never heard of, looking at him with open and undiluted affection without second guessing or doubting himself. 

Even so, Castiel likely won’t be giving up LARPing just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta daaa and also voila. Sorry this took a little while! Hope you enjoyed it or were at least slightly entertained :)


	5. Another Wedding (and some more funerals)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I went LARPing this weekend and... well, thus this story got a uneeded extra epilogue type chapter.... but I couldn't resist. 
> 
> Enjoy.

_Two years later_

Castiel had forgotten how the atmosphere of the events sinks under his skin: it’s something to do with the many fire pits, the glowing lanterns, the smell of smoke and the muted sounds of drumming and make shift folk songs. It makes him feel inexplicably alive and real, despite how fake it all is. It’s an interesting phenomena that Castiel still hasn’t worked out, even after years of LARPing. "I'm unsure another drink is wise," Castiel comments, as Dean accepts a top up of home brewed beer in his tankard. He's has a significant number of them already, which isn't unusual as much as slightly unexpected. Castiel generally associates Dean’s excessive drinking with times of stress or uncertainty, which doesn't seem to fit with how things have been lately. They have been exceptionally good, as a matter of fact. 

"Whatever you say, padre," Dean says with a wink. Beside the drinking, Dean’s leaking his usual exuberance as he always does when they’re out on the field. It’s childlike and pure and lovely and Castiel is very glad that he doesn’t have to temper his thoughts about how much he enjoys watching Dean anymore. 

“I don't appreciate your impertinence,” Castiel says, because if Dean _must_ insist that their LARP characters are not romantically involved _still_ , then Castiel will hold Dean accountable to that decision. He will point out how ridiculous it is, but he will hold Dean accountable. 

“Just a little flirting, reverend,”

“As I have said, if you like it you should put a ring on it,” Castiel says, which has Dean’s eyes light up, his lips pulling upwards into a smile. 

“Seems like disrespect to your late husband,”

“Hunter was an excellent warrior and husband. However, that was two years ago –“

“We measure time in moons, Cas”

“Who's Cas?”

“Smart ass,” 

“I am fed up of you refusing to kiss me whilst we're 'in character'”

“You're the one who decided to be a frigid priest,” Dean says, which is entirely inaccurate, as Castiel merely sat through Dean’s creating his character. Still, it was long enough ago that Castiel doesn’t feel the need to press his point.

“A priest who lost faith,” 

“And you say I'm the melodramatic one,” Dean grins, “I think the good father here is cutting me off and dragging my ass to bed,” Dean announces to the rest of them, draining half of his tankard in one swoop.

“Keep it down, assholes,” Dorothy says, looking up from her own drink and fixing them with a smile-less stare.

“Got no idea what you're talking about,” Dean grins, standing up and holding out a hand to Castiel. "Emmanuel," 

"Fine," Castiel says, and let's Dean drag him to his feet. "Bring the lantern. We're going to the portaloos first ,"

"They're ages away,"

"I'm not being woken up by you needing to urinate in two hours’ time," Cas says. 

"Yes sir," Dean rolls his eyes, falling into step with him. "So, how d'you like my new armour?"

Castiel likes it a lot, actually, which Dean knows full well. He's sure that his pleasure in seeing Dean kitted up is in part due to how much enjoyment Dean gets out of it, but there's certainly something about Dean wearing chain mail with a sword in his belt that's undeniably appealing. 

"It'd have liked to purchase a new microwave more,"

"Still can," Dean says, "buzzkill,"

"I'm tired,"

"You didn't have to come,"

"You wanted me to,"

"Yeah, well, it's more fun when you're here,"

"In fact you were insistent," 

"Yeah, well,"

"Nearly belligerent,"

"Okay, I get it, you don't wanna be here,"

"That's not what I said," Castiel says, pausing to pull Dean in by his leather belt and kiss him, "but you were very insistent,"

"Last time was crap without you,"

"It's nice that you missed me,"

"Not what I said," Dean says, “But yeah. I missed you. I like you all muddy in your priest getup and armour smirking at me when I get too into the game. And the tent's goddamn cold without you,”

“Charming as always,” 

“Mmm need you,” 

“Love you too, Dean,” Cas says, heading up the steps to the portaloos feeling unspeakable content. 

*

“Dean,” Cas complains, “As of this event, you are part of the crew. You have your own meal tickets. Why are you eating my food?”

“Your fries taste better than mine,” 

“Dean,” 

“Mmm,” Dean says, through a mouthful of Castiel’s French fries. Given Dean insisted on having longer in game and therefore more or less missed his food slot before arriving and stealing Castiel’s food, he’s lacking in sympathy. 

“Dean,” 

“Tastes good, Cas,” 

“Stop it,” Cas says, holding his fries out of reach, “Get your own.”

“I got my own right here,” Dean beams, leaning round him to take another fry, so that Cas has a brown tunic clad arm twisting round him.

“You're being obtuse,”

“What's mine is yours, sweetheart,” 

“Dean,” Cas says, but by then Dean has him locked into a hug from behind hovering just over his shoulder in prime position to steal his food. “I _hope_ that's your dagger digging into my back,”

“Hah,” Dean grins, leaning forward to kiss his neck, “Like I'd compromise my LARP weapons so,”

“The lovebirds! Two year anniversary, is it?” Becky says, turning up with enough enthusiasm that Castiel can feel the moment Dean stops relaxing and tensing up. Becky is still not his favourite person. Apparently her investment in their love life is creepy (never mind that Charlie was definitely the mastermind behind that plan).

“Our anniversary is not dictated by the LARP calendar,” Castiel huffs, as Dean releases him to glance at Becky.

“Dean,” Becky says, “Has –”

“-nope, Sam's not coming. Sorry lady,” 

“Actually, we're back together,” Chuck says, swooping in wearing his plot hat, “We need you in the plot tent for briefing, Dean,”

“Awesome,” Dean grins, “Give me five?”

“We're briefing in ten,” Becky says, locking her arm round Chuck’s as they head back to the plot tent, a place that Dean’s been unspeakably excited to enter since Chuck asked him whether he wanted to join the plot team at the end of the previous event. Dean has been impossible since, in a wonderful vibrating with excitement Dean-ish way. 

“Are you excited about your plot debut?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean smiles, “Man, I got so much Intel about the game. You know much power Chuck has? He's _God_.”

“He's a writer,” 

“He's _God_ , Cas,”

“I hope it goes well,” Cas says, leaning into Deans presence. “You know I wouldn't have missed your first time writing plot, regardless of whether you insisted I attended or not,”

“Yeah I just... I just needed you to be here. And your fries.”

“Get your own,”

“I've only got five minutes,” 

“Give your meal ticket. I'll bring them to you,” 

“You are the best life partner ever,” 

“I'm aware,” Cas says, “Enjoy your briefing.”

“And I'm getting a crew t-shirt!” Dean calls after him, eyes shining. 

Twenty minutes later, Castiel walks into the plot tent to find Dean having a heated debate with Chuck about one of the latest rule updates which apparently Dean doesn't agree with, now wearing his plot t-shirt. There’s virtually no reason he’d have needed to change in the past twenty minutes, but he can imagine Dean’s untampered joy at receiving it. Castiel is almost surprised that he hasn’t found himself a plot hat too, even though they look ridiculous. 

He stands when Castiel enters to take the polystyrene box of food from Castiel hand.

“He's an idiot,” Dean says, glancing at Chuck.

“He's god,” Castiel deadpans back, which has Dean make a face at him.

“Thanks,”

“I’ll be in the crew tent,”

“Okay,” Dean says, then, “Wait, Cas there's the battle I wanna be IC for,” 

“Okay,” 

“And I want you to be there,” 

“Why?”

“Need a disgraced priest,”

“Dean, there can only be so many times you use that line,”

“Yeah, but, I'm in the plot team now,” Dean grins, grabbing a handful of burger and stuffing his face with it before continuing through a mouthful of beef, “I can do whatever the hell I want,”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Castiel says, smiling his way back out of the plot tent.

*

“Cas,” 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, turning round from where he's counting out potions for a woman turned apothecary business who's conducting a mass brew in order to sell her wares for the test of the game. 

“Where's my crap?”

“Under the Ambergelt segments,”

“Which is?”

Castiel points in the vague direction of the resources the turns back to the young woman, whose face is now fixed over his shoulder shoulder. When her eyes brows raise slightly, Castiel follows her gaze to find that Dean's stripped off his crew t-shirt and is rummaging around his bag of kit, leaving him in just his leather trousers and mud covered boots. He still has a dagger tucked into his belt. 

“Dean, why are you undressing?”

“Hey I ain't complaining,” the woman says. 

“Need to be IC in five for plot,” Dean says, pulling on a dark red tunic, a flash of abs suddenly obscured. “Can you do up my armour?”

“I'm busy,” 

“Go ahead,” The woman says, still watching Dean. 

“Fine, come here,” Castiel says, as Dean pulls on his armour, holding his arm in order for Castiel to lace up his leather arm guard. 

“Right,” Dean says, once Castiel has finished, “I need to grab some traumatic wounds. Can I just...?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, as Dean dashes towards the other end of the tent.

“I have no idea what it is,” the woman says, watching Dean bend over in his ridiculous leather trousers, "Given its just about the geekiest thing, but there's something about a man in armour that's just... Damn,”

“I'm sleeping with him,” Castiel says, even though it’s completely unnecessary, “And he looks just as good in regular clothing,”

“Cas,” Dean says, suddenly behind him, “You boasting 'bout me?”

“Yes,”

“Get the poor woman her potions,” Dean says, but he’s slightly flushed and it’s wonderful.

“Wait,” Cas say, before Dean can dash off to the field, “Kiss,” 

“You're lucky you’re cute,” Dean says, but leans forward to kiss him anyway.

Both Castiel and the would-be-potion master watch him hasten away, almost running with eagerness to turn up on the field in time.

*

Castiel nearly trips over three times on his way back to the tent and is vaguely surprised when it turns out Dean is already in bed, but not really because he had considered the fact that lots of time had passed since he left their tent hours previously. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, kicking off his boots, which is more difficult that he feels it really should be. In the end, he manages to rid himself of his second boot on the third try, even if it involves using the wooden chest Dean stores the coven’s resources in. 

“Hey buddy,” Dean says, flicking the light on and raising an eyebrow at him. Dean’s amused, because Dean’s much better than Castiel, who got irritated at Dean drinking too many beers yesterday then proceeded to drink an inordinate number of sloe something-or-other-shots. “How'd your accountancy meeting go?”

“I inadvertently went on a bar crawl with Gadreel,” Castiel says, pulling off his robe and letting it drop to the floor.

“Uhuh,” Dean says, smirking at him, “How was that?”

“Yes,”

“Right,” Dean says, “You spend all the money you saved, or…?”

“We only imbiled two of the silver coin’s worth of alcohol,”

“Our accountant doesn’t know what our currencies called,” Dean snorts, “That’ll go down well in the Senate,” 

“Gadreel knows what the coins are called,” Castiel says, pulling off his shirt, “He attends the accountancying-things,”

“The accountancying things,” Dean repeats, “Fuck, I love you,”

“Mm, yes,” Castiel says, depositing himself on the airbed in a way that lacks his usual grace and causes Dean to laugh out loud. “That’s good.”

“Damn straight, cowboy,”

“I’m a priest,”

“You’re drunk,”

“Also true,” Castiel says, rearrange Dean’s arms around him, “I enjoy LARPing,”

“I think I need to record this for future reference,”

“No cell phones on the field,”

“Oh, yeah, now you care about the rules,” Dean says, fingers tracing Castiel’s arms, “You know you’ve still got a wand stowed in your sock, right?”

“Shush, Dean,” Castiel says, “It’s sleep time now.”

“Did you have those funky vodka shots that taste like toffee?”

“Yes,”

“You’re gonna regret that in about five hours,” Dean says, voice smooth and lovely, in that voice that only Castiel gets directed at him. Castiel thoughts are loose and easy and he really is having a very good time, which is only made better by Dean continue to mutter at him after Castiel has already shut his eyes and is beginning to drift off. 

*

“No,” Castiel gravels out, at around five AM when the sun is rising and flooding the tent.

“Uh, what?” Dean asks, sleep-dumb, with an arm thrown over Castiel’s body under their two unzipped sleeping bags.

“The _light_ ,”

“Them’s the breaks, buddy,” Dean says, pulling him closer. 

Casitel tries to bury his face into Dean’s arm to prevent the light from burning his retina.

*

The sound of the tent unzipping for the third time that morning is enough for Castiel to sit up and immediately regret it.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean grins, sauntering into the tent, already half kitted up. “I got you tea and some breakfast.”

“Tea?”

“Yep,” Dean affirms, “But you gotta get up to get it. Plus, there’s painkillers and a litre of water for you.”

“It hurts,”

“Man, if I wasn’t the bigger person right now, I’d definitely be reminding you of the complete lack of sympathy you gave me every time I wind up hungover from drinking home brewed shots,”

“Dean,” Castiel growls, “That’s merely a well-constructed ‘I told you so’. Please give me my tea.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, handing him a flask, “But you gotta be okay for later,”

“Must I come onto the field?” Castiel asks, bringing a hand up to his head to feel out the worst of the damage. The sensation is less knife-through-the-eye and more complete nausea, but it’s still not enough to prevent him from wanting tea. 

“Yeah,” 

“I'd be more willing if you didn't insist our IC characters weren't in a relationship,”

“It's just... Totally out of character for Emmanuel to jump into the bed with the first guy who shows an interest.”

“It's been two years,”

“Yeah, soon,” Dean says, sitting on the edge of the airbed and handing Castiel the bottle of water. Castiel takes it and drinks half. He doesn’t want to, but he’s aware it will help. Next, Dean passes him two pain killers, which Castiel takes with another gulp of water. “I've got a plan. Just come into battle. One time. I'll owe you,”

“What will you owe me?”

“Oral sex? The dishes for a week?”

“Those are very different,” 

“You know I find it fucking hot when you amour up,” Dean says, taking the bottle of water from him and handing him breakfast. Dean must have dug through Castiel’s clothing to find his food tokens and had gone to the trouble of fetching his favourite campsite available breakfast, even though Castiel is undeservedly self-righteous and so very, very hungover. 

“Fine,”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “but I expect both the dishes and oral sex. And you must find me unspeakably attractive the whole time,”

“Deal,” 

“If you don't want to rip my amour off to ravish me I want a complete refund,”

“That's not gonna be a problem,” Dean grins, “Battles at 3pm.”

“Wake me up at 2pm,” Castiel says, finishing his bacon sandwich in a final bite before throwing himself back at the airbed and pulling the sleeping bag over his head. 

*

Castiel is half way through engaging in sword to sword Combat with a shadow Orc when he hears Dean's cry of 'Emmanuel'. It conjures the same level of panic as it would if Dean yelled his actual name, which is ridiculous. Still, Castiel immediately loses focus and is very surprised when it doesn't result in his almost immediate death. Instead, the shadow Orc looks in Dean's direction too.

He's on the ground, clutching his gut with one hand and opening a packet of fake blood with the other.

“Emmanuel,”

“Deanmon,”

“So, bad timing,” Dean says, in such a way that realisation hits Castiel in a rush. He’s suddenly hideously aware of just _why_ Dean was so insistent about his attendance, particularly about this battle, and about Dean’s ‘plan’ and assurances that Castiel would no longer have to deal With Dean insisting their characters weren’t in a relationship – or at least an official relationship – in the game.

“Do _not_ do this again,” Castiel hisses, kneeling next to Dean in the grass, fixing him with a steely frown.

“But I've been meaning to ask for a while,” 

“ _You imbecile_ ,”

“And now I'm holding my guts in,”

“I won't say yes,” 

“But you know I've been in love with you for a long time,”

“This is _not_ my definition of a romantic gesture,”

“And cause, you know, everyone knows we’re it. Me and you.”

“If you –“

“I have a ring –“

“Exceeding prepared for someone holding in their guts,”

“About that. Can you hold my guts in whilst I get it out my pocket?”

“No,” 

“Please?” 

“Fine,” Castiel says, leaning forward to hold Dean's metaphorical guts in. He gets smeared with fake blood in the process and he is definitely going to tell Dean off for this later, because it’s ridiculous and absurd and should not have the capacity to have Castiel’s heart pounding, the urge to start laughing at how wonderfully stupid it all us fluttering in his gut.

“Damn these leather pants,”

“You're ridiculous,” 

“Okay,” Dean says, then his palm opens to reveal the ring, “What do you think?”

It takes Cas a moment to realises it's Dean's fathers wedding ring, that Dean usually wears on his index finger. He takes it off during LARP events as not to lose it. Generally, it is left in their house, in the drawer with the spare keys for the Impala that Castiel is still not allowed to touch and the second copy of the photo of Dean’s mother that he keeps in his wallet.

Cas accidentally lets go of Dean's guts.

“Will you marry me, Cas?” Dean says on an exhale, almost as if he might actually be suffering from an awful life-endangering wound. 

"Real life?”

"Real life," Dean says, palm closing over the ring again as Castiel throws a knee over Dean's hips and straddles him against where he's lying on the floor, kissing him into the grass. His chest is still pounding. Castiel isn’t entirely sure _what_ is happening, except he’s not entirely sure that Dean hasn’t just constructed an entire battle with his new found position on the plot-team and used it to construct the most confusing proposal of all time. Also, it’s important to note that Dean Winchester just _proposed_.

“That a yes or a ‘I'm going to kill you for proposing to me at a LARP event’?” Dean asks, still pinned underneath him. 

“Yes,” 

“Which,”

“Both, you insufferable human,” Castiel says, “I’m _hungover_ you assbutt,”

“Not my fault,” Dean says.

“We… I thought you were… Dean Winchester, you are ridiculous,” Castiel says, leaning forward to kiss him again. It’s exceedingly undignified and Castiel has fake blood all over his hands, which has now been transferred quite alarmingly to Dean’s face. They’re both covered in mud. Castiel has a latex sword jutting out of his belt. 

“Uhm, guys,” Charlie says. Castiel stops kissing his… his _fiancé_ for long enough to register that they’ve gathered quite a crowd and that, bizarrely, everyone has stopped fighting. “Congratulations and all but, uh, Dean… you bled out like a minute ago.”

“I _died_?” Dean asks, looking inordinately put out, “Come on, there’s got to be like extenuating circumstances,”

“Cas let go of your guts,”

“Cas! Seriously, you have a healing potion in your pocket. You were supposed to heal me, Dude,”

“Dean,”

“Damnit,” Dean says, grinning as he sits up, “I guess we gotta wait another two years till Emmanuel gets his next big wedding day.”

“No,” Castiel says, pulling the sword from the hilt of his belt and miming stabbing himself in the stomach with it, before depositing it on the grass, “Now I’m dead too,”

“Woah, Cas, way to go all Romeo and Juliet on my ass,”

“And I am going to be resurrected as Steve a _married_ none-disgraced-priest _pacifist_ who does not drink alcohol. Do you understand me?”

“Your LARP name can’t be _Steve_ ,”

“You are pushing my boundaries,”

“You gotta admit,” Dean say, “It was kinda awesome,”

“Yes,” Castiel exhales, then he’s smiling again, mildly hysterical laughter bubbling up in his stomach, as _Dean,_ , wonderful, childlike, loyal, full of life Dean, stares up at him with that expression like he’s exceedingly pleased with himself. Dean, whom Castiel thought he couldn’t have for such a long time, his best friend, his _partner_. “ _Yes_. Yes.” 

“You have fake blood on your chin,” Dean says, voice vibrating with elation.

Castiel kisses him again. 

They inadvertently stop the entire battle for a further fifteen minutes.

*

“So,” Dean says, standing in the doorway of the tent, an impossibly wide smile all over his face, “Wanna fuck?”

“No,” Castiel says, “It’s become _a thing_ that other people know about, Dean. I refuse to sleep with you in this tent,”

“But,”

“No,” 

“But we’re engaged and crap,” Dean says, peeling off his shirt and shooting Castiel another grin, “You didn’t hate it, right? I mean, I thought it was awesome, but I wanted you to… you know. Not want to kill me,”

“With a LARP weapon, perhaps,” Castiel says, “I cannot quite believe that you conducted an entire battle and endangered your life, again, in order to do it. Then I remember that you’re Dean Winchester,”

“And it was all symmetrical and stuff,”

“It was,” Castiel agrees, smiling despite himself, “You’re a wonder,”

“Heh, you’re pretty damn great too, _Steve_ ,”

“Emotions were running high,”

“Steve,”

“Dean,”

“Steve-O,” Dean says, dropping onto the airbed then pulling Castiel into a hug, “Steve-y, the kingdom holy tax accountant,”

“That dies with Emmanuel,”

“We get to generate our new lives together. That’s pretty cool,”

“Additionally, in the real world we’re _getting married_ which amounts to the same thing,”

“True,” Dean grins, “Your face, Cas,”

“Don’t push your luck, Dean,” Castiel says, as Dean kisses him, hot and lovely. Castiel gets caught up in how much he loves this, loves Dean, loves how Dean can pull him into his schemes and into his streams of humour until Castiel is in on the joke too. How he’s loved Dean for so many years it’s become a part of how he defines himself and how _easy_ their relationship has become is unfathomable. 

“You sure about that no screwing in the tent thing?” Dean asks, after Castiel has rolled them both over and pinned Dean against the airbed. 

“Shut up,” Castiel says, then kisses him again.

*

“Castiel,” Dean says, after they’ve been arguing for approximately an hour of the journey home, with Led Zeppelin playing in the back ground, “I’m pretty sure you should tell him the story. You’ve become the blushing bride, right, so _you_ should be the one doing the gushing proposal stories,”

“That’s deeply sexist and ridiculous,” Castiel retorts, “It was _your_ choice to propose to me via the medium of LARP, Dean, therefore it’s your job to tell Sam yourself,”

“Cas,” Dean says, “He’s gonna laugh at me,”

“He’s your brother,”

“He’s gonna laugh _so hard_ ,” Dean says, flexing his grip on the steering wheel, “I mean, he still cracks up every time someone asks how we got together.”

“We got fake LARP married, Dean,” Castiel says, “You can understand why someone might find that amusing,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I still think you should tell him,”

“Are we nearly home yet?” Castiel asks, “I think I might have a nap,”

“You dick,” Dean says, “Cas, come on.”

“No,”

“I'll do the dishes all this week?”

“You already promised me that,”

“Cas,”

“I’m sleeping now,” Castiel declares, screwing up one of Dean’s old hoodies to use as a pillow and resting his head against the window of Bobby’s pick up. “Goodnight, fiancé.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm not even sorry)


End file.
